of the soul,
          Which, though the seasons roll
    Without on tides of ever-varying winds,
          The watcher never finds
    Flickering in draughts, or dim for lack of oil. 
          There is a clime, a soil,
    Where loves spring up twin-stemmed from mere chance seed
          Dropped by a word, a deed. 
    As travellers toiling through the Alpine snow
          See Italy below;—­
    Down glacier slopes and craggy cliffs and pines
          Descend upon the vines,
    And meet the welcoming South who half-way up
          Lifts her o’erbrimming cup,—­

    So, blest is he, from peaks of human ice
          Lit on this Paradise;—­
    Who ’mid the jar of tongues hears music sweet;—­
          Who in some foreign street
    Thronged with cold eyes catches a hand, a glance,
          That deifies his chance,
    That turns the dreary city to a home,
          The blank hotel to a dome
    Of splendor, while the unsympathizing crowd
          Seems with his light endowed. 
    Many there be who call themselves our friends. 
          But ah! if Heaven sends
    One, only one, the fellow to our soul,
          To make our half a whole,
    Rich beyond price are we.  The millionnaire
          Without such boon is bare,
    Bare to the skin,—­a gilded tavern-sign
          Creaking with fitful whine
    Beneath chill winds, with none to look at him
          Save as a label grim
    To the good cheer and company within
          His comfortable inn.

* * * * *

THE SINGING-SCHOOL ROMANCE.

Father sits at the head of our pew.  In old Indian times they say that the male head of the family always took that place, on account of the possible whoops of the savages, who sometimes came down on a congregation like wolves on the fold.  It was necessary that the men should be ready to rise at once to defend their families.  Whatever the old reason was, the new is sufficient.  Men must sit near the pew doors now on account of the hoops of the ladies.  The cause is different, the effect is the same.

Father, then, sits at the head of the pew; mother next; Aunt Clara next; next I, and then Jerusha.  That has been the arrangement ever since I can remember.  Any change in our places would be as fatal to our devotions as the dislodgment of Baron Rothschild from his particular pillar was once to the business of the London Stock Exchange.  He could not negotiate if not at his post.  We could not worship if not in our precise places.  I think, by the fussing and fidgeting which taking seats in the church always causes, that everybody has the same feeling.

It was Sunday afternoon.  The good minister, Parson Oliver, had finished his sermon.  The text was—­well, I can’t pretend to remember.  Aunt Clara’s behavior in meeting, and what she said to us that afternoon, have put the text, sermon, and all out of my head forever.  That is no matter; or rather, it is all the better; for when the same sermon comes again, in its triennial round, I shall not recognize an old acquaintance.