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whose colors I cannot define, and whose names I do not know.

8. And so the days went on to seven, to ten, to fourteen. There were few to see it; but even the busy and usually unobservant farming people took note of it.

There is no doubt that many years will come and go before Bethlehem hills will see such sights again. All her people agree in saying they never saw such before, and I myself in fifteen autumns of mountain rambling have never seen anything like it.

9. As I write the air is full of whirling leaves, brown, yellow, and red. The show is over. The winds, like noisy carpenters, are taking down the scenery. Soon the naked wood of the trees will be all that we shall see of last week's pomp and spectacle. But the next thing in beauty to a tree in full leaf is a tree bare ; its very exquisiteness of shape revealed, its hold on the

sky seeming so unspeakably assured; the solemn grace · of prophecy and promise which every slender twig bears in its tiny gray buds revealed.

10. Last night, as if in final symphony to the play, and grand prelude of winter, the color spirits took possession of the sky, and for three hours shook its very folds with the noiseless cadence of their motions. There they all were, the green, the pink, the fiery red, which we had dared to touch and pick in leaves, now floating and dancing in disembodied ecstasy over our heads, wrapped and twined in very light of very light as in celestial garments.

11. From the zenith to the eastern, western, and northern horizon, no spot was dark. If there had been snow on the ground it would have been lit to redness as by fire. The village looked on in solemn silence; bareheaded men and women stood almost in awe at every threshold and gate. This also was such sight as had not been seen from their doors. The oldest man here does not remember such an aurora.

It is hard to believe that Lapland itself ever saw one more weird, more beautiful.



How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blessed!
When Spring with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!



By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day ; -
Under the one, the Blue;

Under the other, the Gray.

These, in the robings of glory,

Those, in the gloom of defeat, All, with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;

Under the willow, the Gray.

From the silence of sorrowful hours,

The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,
Alike for the friend and the foe;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day ;
Under the roses, the Blue,

Under the lilies, the Gray.

So, with an equal splendor,

The morning sun-rays fall,

With a touch, impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all ; -.

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue;

Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the summer calleth,

On forest and field of grain, With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drop of the rain ;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,

Wet with the rain, the Gray,

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,

The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,

Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,

Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever,

When they laurel the graves of our dead ; –

Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears, for the Blue,

Tears and love, for the Gray.



1. The word “fun,” as it is used by young people, means any kind of “a good time.” Whatever is surprising is called funny sometimes even if it is something sad. Properly speaking, only that is funny which is laughable. I wish to speak now of what may be found comical by one and another, and of what may be done for the sake of raising a laugh.

2. We may often find in kindly and innocent mirth both pleasure and refreshment. President Lincoln was very fond of a funny story. He felt the strain and burden of the war so strongly that, if it had not been for this relief, he would have broken down long before the war was over. For one who is serious all the time the strain of life is often too hard.

3. It is a great thing to be able to see the ludicrous side of one's own mishaps or failures. What one person will grieve over another will carry off with a laugh. One is mortified beyond measure, another finds only amusement. A person who can never see the funny side of his mishaps goes through life as if he were in a

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