ing. The statements made were not always exact. One horse, evidently defective, was vainly offered for ten dollars. One would think the skin worth that much. There are here to-day several teams with stuff to be ground at the mill, and some veritable hayseeds, with unkempt hair and chin whiskers. They all patronized the bar-beer, wine, or schnapps. The landlord has a new sign put up: "Terms strictly Cash." I fear some steam-shoveler with a rank thirst and small income hath bought and never paid.

There is talk of roast pig; Joseph has the matter in charge. Pigs may be said to be a drug on the market this year. Joseph has arranged for the pig; it is to be dressed to-night. I am deep in the matter of sage stuffing and proper basting, and have recommended baked potatoes to be served with the pig.

The night is clear and cold; a half-grown moon sheds brightness on the snow. All the brighter stars are marshaled to add their radiance. The distances fade into pearly grayness. Some persons playing clarinets occasionally inject sound into the unearthly peacefulness-the village else is asleep and still.

Four years ago to-day I was at Monte Carlo, among the oranges and palms of that enchanting

place. Zoar-Monte Carlo-can any wider stretch lie between any other two? I love them both. I cannot forget the days at Monte Carlo; they could not last. But, oh! at Zoar there is a peace; the world is far away, with its pride and wealth and needless luxury, its false and hollow hearts, its faithless friends. Nature is not unkind; a limit is placed on the duration of a life which so often is a burden we cannot bear.

"Is not short pain well borne that brings long rest
And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave?"

I have enjoyed all radiant fancies, all exultant hopes-the ecstasy and pain of love. After the sunshine, who can wish to live in darkness? Bitterness and longing for long-past and ever-lost years, faces that we may see no more, voices still forever, and now serenity comes from the clearness of an evening sky crowded with purple clouds, from the music the wind makes in the tops of prominent trees, the old, familiar song of wild birds, the scent of apple blossoms, the fragrance from clover fields, and the hum of bees. From the ashes of the dead past some embers remain. Let me rake together what is left, and kindle again some sparks of the ancient sacred fire. Too late!

Too late? Let me not listen to it; while I live

I will still cherish and hold fast to all. Avaunt, thou specter of decay! I will still be young. Gray hairs and weariness, I will none of you. The world knows not how in this withered husk lies all there can be of joyousness and ever springing hope. Still shall my soul pay deathless homage to youth and beauty and goodness. Infinite pity and love shall drive the harsher spirits forth. I will no longer load myself with to-morrow; to-day alone is mine. Each day I must make some one glad that I am alive-not with the power of riches which I cannot wield, but with that finer supremacy of the heart.

While I sit alone, late, and full of old memories, no sound except the distant barking of a dog indicates life on the planet which whirls me with inconceivable swiftness through space. A little while and I perish-a handful of earth to tell the story of all my life. I take my place with the multitudes who have gone before. Where are the antique souls who breathed high thoughts? Cæsar, Alaric, Charlemagne? Gone! Gone! A sound, a name-but for themselves, dust, and only dust.

As for me, I am in the hands of that great unknown and unknowable force which brought me, not being consulted, and which takes me unwill

ingly again. I trust me in the hands of this awful power beyond the hysterical explanations of the orthodox. I trust, and can wait.

This day I so reluctantly give up will be replaced by a to-morrow; but only of to-day shall I be concerned. To-morrow never will be. It is, after all, only to-day.

JANUARY 17. In the morning with John to Lengeler's woods to count the saw-logs. The fourhorse teams are there loading. Each takes a heavy log, one end on a two-wheeled truck, the other dragging on the ground going down the hill. One truck upsets, and there is much ado to right it again. There is a black haze obscuring everything not near. In the afternoon the wind blows rawly from the north. A dull, leaden sky, threatening rain or snow. It is decided to have the roast pig to-night. Night falls with bitter cold and a wind which makes the windows rattle and the chimneys roar. The wood-choppers come in and press around the stove; the cold pierces even their robust frames. Much drinking of schnapps follows. The coal-miner grows suddenly rich after the fourth glass.

We have the pig at 8.30. Louis is there. After supper, much idle and pleasant talk, and to bed.

JANUARY 18, Sunday. Gray and cold. In the af

ternoon, John, Louis, August, Joseph, and I talk at Joseph's. The younger folk skate. They come and spend the evening with me. John is pessimistic-I am hopeful, but admit that chaos may come again.

APRIL 12. I have been here four days, after an absence of three months. I walked over from the junction. As I descended the hill, the village bell rang. Here, at least, the world shows little change. The sound of the bell was like a welcome back to "the calm haven of my choice." I was greeted with much kindness. My home and garden are as I left them; spring is indicated in the faint movement of vegetation; the dormant roots have taken life, and the annual miracle is being reenacted; from the dull bulb bursts the glorious flower. I begin at once to put my garden in order. The sweet reward of labor is, first, health and strength, and then the fruition in fruit and flower and vegetable. Michael Miller, the Nestor of the society, died during my absence. For nearly seventy years he has lived in this narrow and placid circle, seldom leaving the valley and having no want unfulfilled. His passing was serene and painless; the play was over, and Nature took him again to her bosom.