versal consent, one of the very best-does any one believe that if the little knot of worthy and honorable gentlemen to whom has been conceded the control of that magnificent monopoly could have had now and then a large infusion of new blood in their old corporation by the addition of new associates, not of their own choosing, and could have had their operations authoritatively canvassed by shrewd men from outside their own circle, the American Bible Society would have continued to this day in a method of business which makes it the chief existing hindrance to the circulation of the Bible in the town and village populations of America? What ought to be done about the matter? It is just the sort of subject which they deal with in England by a Parliamentary Commission. But I doubt whether it would be thought wise to invoke upon it the attention of the Legislature of New York, or of Pennsylvania, or even of Massachusetts. It is every way a fit subject for the attention of clerical and ecclesiastical conventions, and one way, perhaps the best way that the case admits, of relieving the difficulty, would be simply to turn end for end the present relation and communication between these two sets of bodies. As it now stands, the Society sends its best man to the Synod, Conference or Council, and after an ex parte statement from him, describing the awful destitution and the glorious work, a resolution is unanimously adopted approving and recommending the society. If, on the contrary, the Council or Synod should detail committees every year to attend the Annual Meeting of every society known to bid for donations among its congregations, charging them to look sharply into the whole matter, and make, not an ex parte statement but an impartial report, for the benefit not of the Society but of the public,—this would come as near, perhaps, to a remedy, as the inveteracy of the disorder admits. Of course, the average committee would do what the average committee generally does. But it would happen, from time to time, that some hard-headed, impracticable fellow would get appointed, who would hear no smooth talk, but insist on raking his society open down to the bottom, and letting fresh air and daylight through and through it. And the mere thought of such a thing as annually possible, would be a bitter but most salutary and invigorating tonic to the broken-down "constitution" of every national benevolent society in America. Leonard Woolsey Bacon. THE DONKEY'S MIRACLE. I CANNOT tell you how many years ago it of theirs would be hard to find. In spite of happened, for Mademoiselle, my black-eyed conversation-teacher, forgot to mention; but we will say "some," and then no one can contradict us. Some years ago, then, there lived in a small village of Northern Italy a poor peasant whom we will call Pietro. Pietro had a wife whose name was Gigia, and two little children, a boy and a girl, name Carlo and Giulia. Last, but not by any means least, he had a donkey, whom the children called Bimbo. A funny name for a donkey; for Bimbo means baby, and anything less like a baby than this longeared, rough-coated, harsh-voiced playmate his unprepossessing appearance, however, and unlike many of his contrary-minded race, Bimbo had an affectionate nature; and would frolic with the children like a big dog; making no remonstrance even when Giulia pulled his long, leathery ears, or Carlo hung on strenuously to his rope-like tail. But Bimbo's life was not all play-time, by any means. His business was to earn the family's support; and many a heavy load did he carry from village to village, and many were the scant suppers that fell to his share after a hard day's faithful labor. In only one thing was he blessed above other donkeys, he got few blows; for Pietro was both a kind man and a lazy; and had seldom either the inclination or the energy to abuse his beast. Now the village where Pietro and his family lived lay close by the foot of Monte Generoso, one of the three great mount ains which render so picturesque and lovely the upper portion of Lake Lugano. On its summit stood an old monastery, and one of Pietro's regular duties was to load his donkey with bread and wine and provisions of all kinds, and wend his way slowly up the long, winding path that scaled the mountain. Once in every ten days he must do this, for it was a rule of the order never to have more than a ten days' supply on hand at once; a rule supposed to be contrived for the better mortification of the flesh in the case of the monks themselves, but really falling hardest upon the poor peasant and his donkey, who had in all weathers, and under all circumstances, to make the toilsome journey, or feel that the holy fathers were suffering hunger for their negligence. Although in those localities the snow is generally confined to the mountain slopes, and seldom falls in the valleys to a depth greater than a few hours' sunshine suffices to melt away, still there comes now and then a storm which leaves more lasting traces, and gives the sun a good two days' work to do. It so happened that this very winter of which I am writing was an unusually severe one; (well for me that it was, otherwise I should have had no story to tell,) and snow storms on the mountains had been both heavy and frequent, so that Pietro and Bimbo found their pious pilgrimages, always hard at the best, cold and laborious enough; especially as they received little in return save the prayers and blessings of the snow-bound monks, and whatever joy of heart might be derived from the consciousness of an irksome duty faithfully performed. In Pietro's case little enough, and in Bimbo's—I was about to say none at all; but who shall read the workings of a donkey's mind? Let me tell you what he did, and then say whether or not it sprung from noble motives. It was mid-winter, and owing to the unusual severity of the storms, the last few visits to the monastery had been attended with great hardship and exposure, so that little Carlo and Giulia who were generally quick to hear the sound of the donkey's returning hoofs upon the stone floor of the arcade, which, as in most Italian towns, formed the principal thoroughfare for pedestrians, had been tucked snugly away for the night long before the two wearied travelers returned. One morning, just ten days after the last of these trips, the two children waking in the gray of the early dawn heard Bimbo in the stable behind them crunching his dried bean-stalks, and saw their mother in the outer room, bustling about as she prepared the gnocchi and polenta for their unassuming breakfast. Pietro came in at the door just as the smoking hot dishes were placed upon the table, and Giulia's keen little eyes spied upon the broad shoulders of her father's rough coat several melting snow-flakes. "It is a wild day on the mountains, wife," said he; "I have not seen such a storm in twenty years. The holy fathers will have to fast awhile, unless they have been wise enough to keep a little of the last I carried them; neither man nor beast could breast the mountain in the teeth of such a blinding hurricane. The village street is white already, and hear how the wind roars in the chimney!" Truly it did roar, and the tiles clattered on the roof. Carlo thrust his brown hands into the pockets of his baggy little trowsers, and drew closer to the meager fire; while Giulia stared with wide-open eyes into her mother's face. "But, must the poor monks starve to death, then?" asked the child. "The holy Virgin and the saints forbid!" replied her mother. "Perhaps the storm will lull by night, and then to-morrow Bimbo and the father may make their way through the drifts. The beast is a good beast, and the father, as thou well knowest, has the longest legs and the stoutest of any man in the village.” But when the morrow came, neither Bimbo's goodness nor Pietro's legs availed them anything in the face of the storm that still swept wildly down the mountain. At any other time the children would have laughed to hear the wind go roaring through the valley, and would only have huddled closer together beside the fire, and told one another stories to while away the hours. But now the thought of the poor monks suffering from hunger, with no help near, destroyed all desire for merriment on their part, and they were as glad as their parents when at sunset the wind moderated somewhat, and the sharp flakes fell more slowly. Next morning when they awoke the sky above the village roofs was clear and blue, but the wind still blew keenly through the valley, and the great mountain was white to its base; while heavy, sullen-looking stormclouds yet hung gray about the summit. "The storm is not over up there," said Pietro, "but Bimbo and I must start; it may clear by noon, and at all events we can but try." So the donkey was brought to the door and loaded, but lightly, for a hard scramble was before him. Then Pietro stepped once more into the house to don his rough coat, and pull on his stout iron-shod mountain boots. Carlo ran and fetched his father's staff, while Giulia brought the shaggy fur cap, and Gigia hastened to fill a flask with strong wine, which she stored away in one of her husband's capacious pockets. "The cunning beast has hidden himself away that he may get rid of his troublesome journey. That in itself would have been bad enough, but he must needs take with him all the good stores which I had provided for the fathers. Now there must be more procured, to say nothing of a fresh beast, and all this will delay me till it is too late to start today." Thus he relieved his mind by scolding away at the delinquent Bimbo, while Carlo and Giulia hung their heads, and could not find a word to say in defence of their guilty favorite. Meanwhile how fared it with the inmates of the monastery? As Pietro had foreseen, they had been sparing of their supplies; but their frugality barely availed to stretch the scanty allowance over one more day, and when the second morning broke they had already been fasting for fifteen hours. Wild as the storm was in the valley below, up here on the lonely mountain-top it was infinitely more so; and to the hungry monks the wild, sweeping wind that roared and whistled and shrieked about their stone-walled prison, and the cold white snow-flakes that danced and drifted and piled themselves higher and higher against portal and casements, seemed like a besieging, pitiless host, from whose advancing columns it were vain to look for mercy; whose relentless progress no flag of truce nor signal of surrender would ever stay, until the helpless garrison lay vanquished "Drink this when the drifts grow deep," she said, "and thou wilt be able to go through them like a plowshare." Pietro nodded, as they hung about him, and overcome before their leader, Death! loth to let him go. "May the saints preserve us!" he cried. "Now then, my brave Bimbo!" But as he gained the doorway his face fell, and he stared in helpless astonishment. "Brave Bimbo" had disappeared. Whither? that was the question. In vain did his master fume and fret, and run hither and thither; there was no trace of him to be found. None of the neighbors had seen him pass; his hoofs had left no mark upon the hard gray stones of the arcade, and where these ended the light, blowing, powdery snow had long since smoothed away all tracks. What was to be done? As the day wore to its close and darkness for the second time shut them in, the monks began to despair. The great fire blazing in the hall was insufficient to warm the frames chilled alike by hunger, and the bitter, searching air which found its way through every crack. "Here, my children," said the Father Superior, "there still remains to us this one small flask of wine;" and he drew it as he spoke from beneath the folds of his robe. "Drink sparingly of it,-here are ten of us, and to-morrow our need may be more sore even than to day." The nine brothers drank each his portion "The evil one is in it," grumbled Pietro. in silence; and when the Superior had fol lowed the example, he bade them all go to their pallets; "for hunger is more easily borne in sleep," said he. All night long the wind raved, and the snow deepened, and the cold grew more intense. In the gray of the morning the Superior rose up, and the monks gathered about him. They looked out upon the storm that still swept wildly round them, and then at one another, with gray, stony faces. They could not know that down in the valley the sun was shining from a clear blue sky; they only felt that all the world had turned to clouds and snow. "The storm does not abate, my children," said the Superior; "no earthly aid can ever reach us now; our only hope is in heaven. Let the chapel bell be rung, and let us gather before the altar to spend the strength that remains to us in prayer and supplication. Who knows but that if our petitions be true and heartfelt, the Lord may work a miracle in our behalf as he did of old for the holy St. Antony of Thebes!" near. So all day long the poor monks prayed and fasted. Their scanty stock of wine was gone, and with it went their last ray of hope as darkness fell around them for the third time, and no aid, human or divine, seemed Then rose up the Father Superior in their midst, and began a hymn. One by one the poor old trembling voices caught it up, and the pinched, wan faces brightened as the brave words of hope and trust stirred their hearts anew with faith and courage. As the last strain died away there came a strange sound,—a sound as of knocking, at the great door of the monastery. The monks looked in each other's faces, and knew not whether to be glad or fearful; but the Father Superior advanced boldly, and drew the massive bolts, and flung wide the heavy door. "It is the hand of the Lord!" he cried. Crowding about the open doorway, peering out eagerly into the dusk and storm, the brothers caught the dim outline of a white, silent form, that stood motionless and made no sign. Was it a man, or was it a spirit? Neither; it was a donkey! No human being accompanied him,-no hoof-prints in the drifting snow told whence or how he came; but slung across his back were panniers full of bread, and wine, and meal; and to the grateful, happy monks, it seemed that the Lord had indeed wrought a miracle in their behalf, as of old for the holy St. Antony; and so he had. Next day came men from the village, led by Pietro, and bringing food to the snowbound fathers. But these were already cared for, and Pietro's eyes grew wider with wonder and dismay than they had at the donkey's disappearance, when they rested on the quiet countenance and twinkling ears of Bimbo himself, who was placidly enjoying his well-earned repose, profoundly indifferent to the effect that his remarkable exploit had produced. The holy fathers now heard for the first time the true explanation of the mystery, and Bimbo was praised and petted to his heart's content. His portrait was painted upon the great door of the monastery; and after all these years his story was related to me, a simple traveler from far beyond the sea, as I sat beside the fair Lugano Lake and looked across it to the mountain where the donkey's miracle was wrought. Caroline Leslie. IN THE CHURCH TOWER. that hangs high up on the church tower. The owls wink their eyes, and listen; but, whatever they may hear there, nothing is ever repeated by them in the town. ONLY the owls live in the church tower the dingy stairway up to the little balcony that overlooks Drooge. Through nine months of the year they have it to themselves; but, in the summers, when Drooge gathers into its dwellings and its one hotel a small crowd of city people, it occasionally happens that a pair of lovers will climb On one midsummer night a single figure stood on this balcony. It was Miss Dora Lovel, a lady well known in certain fashionable circles in a certain city. She lived with her brother's family, and, as they were spending a summer in Drooge, Miss Dora was there also. But when, in the cool of the afternoon she had left the hotel, she had no intention of visiting the church tower. She had dressed with her usual care and elegance, and had gone out on the beach Miss Dora knew everybody worth knowing, and one after another gave her a pleasant greeting as she met them. The Brands invited her to join them. Others fell into the party, and soon there was a merry company strolling together. Miss Dora was gay, and chatted in her airy way. They all sat for a time in a pavilion, and the merry talk went on. Then some of the party joined their children playing on the beach; two ladies walked down to the train to meet their husbands; the Brands went for a sail; three young ladies departed in search of younger companions. This left in the pavilion only Mr. and Mrs. Graves and Miss Dora. Mr. Graves proposed to his wife that they should walk to "The Point," a full mile distant; and though they asked Miss Dora to accompany them, she felt that there was no heartiness in the invitation. She did not blame them for not desiring her company, for they were newly-married, and, naturally, liked to have only each other. But she was not altogether pleased to wander alone from the pavilion. However, she thought she would soon fall in with another company. But no one paid her any especial attention. Some were out in the boats thickly strewn over the bay. Now the carriages came rolling along the drive. Her brother and his wife passed in a buggy, and nodded to her. It was right; she knew, that he should take his wife whenever he went for a drive in the buggy. When the whole family went a carriage was hired, and then she always made one of the party, and paid part of the expense. She had thought of taking a drive that afternoon, but her nieces did not want to go, and so the buggy had been decided upon. She soon met Elsie, the elder niece. With her was John Morley, the son of a rich banker, and the most eligible young man of the season at Drooge. Consequently Elsie's head was held so high that she could only give a little formal bow, but Miss Dora felt that there was triumph in it. This may have been only fancy, for Miss Dora's gaiety had given away to gloom. Not far beyond she met the younger niece with a party of lively companions, and they nodded gaily to Miss Dora and then passed on. To them there was nothing attractive in Miss Dora's plain face, with its crow's feet, dull gray eyes, drawn-down mouth, and large nose, all set in a frame-work of bright little curls, and surrounded by a halo of fine straw and lace. In a lonely part of the beach sat Mary Mills and George Ashman, so absorbed in each other that they did not see Miss Dora; but she noted the bright light of happiness shining in both faces, though that of Mary Mills was as plain as Miss Dora's own. Miss Dora could bear no more, and turning aside from the beach, she walked into the town. She wandered aimlessly on until she came to the church. There she paused, and looked up to the balcony. It was empty, and illuminated with rose-red lights from the sunset clouds; and Miss Dora felt it would be a relief to be lifted up there out of the shadows in which she stood under the trees. There came into her mind a Drooge legend of a pair of long-divided lovers who had happily found each other in this church tower, drawn thither from distant parts of the earth, and re-united in their old age. Old memories crowded into Miss Dora's mind as she walked back and forth before the church, occasionally glancing up at the tower. She had no defined thought that she would gain any new happiness in the church tower; but she at last entered the open door, climbed the narrow stairway up to the tower room, and stepped out upon the balcony. She had lingered below so long that the rose tints had climbed to the spire, and, after all, she stood only in the gray twilight. But she could plainly see the crowded beach, the black line of vehicles winding along the road, and the numerous white sails against the red evening sky. So many, many people, and not one of them missed her! If she were to pass out of life in the same quiet |