dormitories. A faint twittering is heard amongst the ivy-leaves, in
answer to 'the cock's shrill clarion,' and in a few seconds, the little
sleepers amongst the oak and ash trees take it up, and by the time the
sun has come out of his bath, and the cock has ceased crowing, there is
a full chorus of heart stirring minstrelsy round about the quiet farm.
Down below in the meadow, the cattle begin to shake off the dew-drops
from their hides, and to send forth a plaintive low as they slowly seek
their early breakfast in the spangled grass, or by the steaming river.
Away among the hills, the faint bleat of the sheep echoes from heath to
heath, whilst their white fleeces dot the plains. Over the face of happy
nature creeps a glow that seems to come from the heart, and to make her
look up, rejoicing, to the sun as part of herself, and yet a type of the
Great Creator.

But whilst this Sabbath morning hymn thus rises, betimes, to the throne
of Him who sits beyond the sunbeams, tired man sleeps on. The farmer's
household is still slumbering, and after a week of hard labour, taking
an additional hour's repose on that day which was graciously appointed
as a day of rest. Scarcely can the sun peep in through the drawn
curtains and shutters of the windows, and no song of birds, or low of
cows, seems as yet to have reached the closed ears of the sleepers.
Master and men alike obtain the bounteous gift of sleep so often denied
to the less laborious rich.

We are wrong in supposing that all are slumbering in the farm-house.
Quietly the mistress steps out of the back door which she has
noiselessly opened, as if afraid of disturbing her household. As the
brisk little figure moves across the farm-yard, it is instantly
surrounded by a flock of poultry that seem intuitively to expect an alms
at her hand, as do the poor Irish who haunt her dwelling. But she has