“Who, that didn’t know it,” said he, “could be made to believe this fine-looking woman was once little Moppet, who coiled herself up to sleep on the floor of our log-cabin?”

Uncle George replied,—­

“You know I always told you it was the nature of all sorts of flowers to grow, if they had plenty of genial air and sunshine.”

As for A-lee-lah’s little daughter, Jenny, she is universally admitted to be the prettiest and brightest child in the village.  Mr. Wharton says her busy little mind makes him think of his Willie, at her age; and Uncle Charles says he has no fault to find with her, for she has her mother’s beautiful eyes, and wears her hair “like folks.”

* * * * *

A CALL TO MY COUNTRY-WOMEN.

In the newspapers and magazines you shall see many poems—­written by women who meekly term themselves weak, and modestly profess to represent only the weak among their sex—­tunefully discussing the duties which the weak owe to their country in days like these.  The invariable conclusion is, that, though they cannot fight, because they are not men,—­or go down to nurse the sick and wounded, because they have children to take care of,—­or write effectively, because they do not know how,—­or do any great and heroic thing, because they have not the ability,—­they can pray; and they generally do close with a melodious and beautiful prayer.  Now praying is a good thing.  It is, in fact, the very best thing in the world to do, and there is no danger of our having too much of it; but if women, weak or strong, consider that praying is all they can or ought to do for their country, and so settle down contented with that, they make as great a mistake as if they did not pray at all.  True, women cannot fight, and there is no call for any great number of female nurses; notwithstanding this, I believe, that, to-day, the issue of this war depends quite as much upon American women as upon American men,—­and depends, too, not upon the few who write, but upon the many who do not.  The women of the Revolution were not only Mrs. Adams, Mrs. Reed, and Mrs. Schuyler, but the wives of the farmers and shoemakers and blacksmiths everywhere.  It is not Mrs. Stowe, or Mrs. Howe, or Miss Stevenson, or Miss Dix, alone, who is to save the country, but the thousands upon thousands who are at this moment darning stockings, tending babies, sweeping floors.  It is to them I speak.  It is they whom I wish to get hold of; for in their hands lies slumbering the future of this nation.

The women of to-day have not come up to the level of to-day.  They do not stand abreast with its issues.  They do not rise to the height of its great argument.  I do not forget what you have done.  I have beheld, O Dorcases, with admiration and gratitude, the coats and garments, the lint and bandages, which you have made.  Tender hearts, if you could have finished the war with your needles,