floor above the waters. The gathering darkness deepens the quiet of the
lake, and bids us, at least for this time, to forsake it. "_De soir
fontaines, de matin montaignes_," says the old French proverb,--Morning
for labor, evening for repose.




A SERMON IN A STONE.


Harry Jones and Tom Murdock got down from the cars,
Near a still country village, and lit their cigars.
They had left the hot town for a stroll and a chat,
And wandered on looking at this and at that,--
Plumed grass with pink clover that waltzed in the breeze,
Ruby currants in gardens, and pears on the trees,--
Till a green church-yard showed them its sun-checkered gloom,
And in they both went and sat down on a tomb.
The dead name was mossy; the letters were dim;
But they spelled out "James Woodson," and mused upon him,
Till Harry said, poring, "I wish I could know
What manner of man used the bones down below."
Answered Tom,--as he took his cigar from his lip
And tapped off the ashes that crusted the tip,
His quaint face somewhat shaded with awe and with mystery,--
"You shall hear, if you will, the main points in his story."--
"You don't mean you knew him? You could not! See here!
Why, this, since he died, is the thirtieth year!"--
"I never saw him, nor the place where he lay,