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for the last time in quiet, woody places with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles kissing babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing; and some are talking with wives and endeavoring, with brave words spoken in the old tones, to drive away the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms-standing in the sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves-she answers by holding high in her loving hands the child. He is gone, and forever.

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the wild, grand music of war-marching down the streets of the great cities-through the towns and across the prairies-down to the fields of glory, to do and die for the eternal right. We go with them one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in the ravines running with bloodin the furrows of old fields. We are with them between the contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells in the trenches of forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men became iron with nerves of steel. We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine, but human speech can never tell what they endured. We are home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief. The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes

died. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction block, the slave pen and the whipping post, and we see homes and firesides and schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime, and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free. These heroes are dead. They died for liberty-they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars-they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death.

I have one sentiment for the soldier, living and deadcheers for the living and tears for the dead.

Robert G. Ingersoll.

THE FOOTPATH TO PEACE

A Thought for the Opening Year

To be glad of life, because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars; to be satisfied with your possessions, but not contented with yourself until you have made the best of them; to despise nothing in the world except falsehood and meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice; to be governed by your admirations rather than by your disgusts; to covet nothing that is your neighbor's except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners; to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends and every day of Christ; and to spend as much time as you can with body and with spirit, in God's out-ofdoors-these are little guide-posts on the footpath to peace. Henry Van Dyke.

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"What would we do in this world of ours Were it not for the dreams ahead?"

THE DREAMS AHEAD: Edwin Carlile Litsey. (See page 78)

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"The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice." JUNE: James Russell Lowell. (See page 91)

ROCK OF AGES-THE SONG

Some years ago the following exquisite verses appeared in Public Opinion, London. They surely have in them power to gently touch every heart and to soothe the weary. It is but one of the many beautiful forms of the story of a life lived according to faith in God.

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me-"
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung;
Fell the words unconsciously
From the girlish, guileless tongue;
Sung as little children sing,

Sung as sing the birds in June;
Fell the words as light leaves down
On the current of the tune-
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me-"

Felt her soul no need to hide,
Sweet the song as song could be,
And she had no thought beside;
All the words unheedingly

Fell from lips untouched by care,
Dreamed not then that each might be
On some other lips a prayer--

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me

'Twas a woman sung them now;
Sung them slow and wearily-
Wan hand on her aching brow.
Rode the song as storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air;

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