y few of the select sisters we present a can of our
preserved quinces, with directions how to prepare them. Poor Em., the
black domestic, drops so many tears upon the parlor stove as she
carries it out to the wagon that the fresh blackening she has so
industriously given it goes for nothing; for Em. is to be discharged,
and the fact troubles her, though a preacher's servant has little to
eat and plenty to do.

At last the old parsonage is quite bare and deserted, though our
successors, box and baggage, have moved in upon us, much to the
annoyance of the females, who see with jealousy that the new arrival
gets the lion's share of attention, and that Brother Tipp, whose
class-book we took from him, and who has backbitten us ever since, is
courteous as a dancing-master with our rival. We shall talk for six
years to come--that is, our mother--of Bangs's, the new-comer's,
impudence in feeding his horse on our oats, and shall never speak of
him as Brother Bangs, but simply call him _Bangs_, emphasized. We are
not even sure that he will not turn his poultry loose before ours has
been secured, and we boys, with great zeal, run down the roosters and
ducks, giving them, if the truth must be told, longer chase than is
necessary. The aged muscovy, we are sorry to say, lames himself in the
retreat, and the only goose on the premises hides among Powell's, the
neighbor's, so that we cannot tell which from which. However, the
property is tied up at last in the several wagons; Sister Phoenix's
lunch has been eaten, and our father, the itinerant, in his
shirt-sleeves, stands up, with pain and perspiration on his brow, to
bid his flock good-by.

"Now, brethren," he says, with a quiver at his throat, "my time is
passing; I have finished the work appointed for me to do. Renew the
kindnesses you have done me and my little ones upon the good steward
who is to replace me. My heart weeps to cut the bonds which have held
us so long together; but in this world I am a pilgrim and a stranger.
Let us all pray!"

As his shrill, broken voice goes up in a mingled wail and hosanna, we
children peep by stealth into the working faces of the bystanders, and
our own grow tearful, till our little sister cries aloud, and our
mother falls into some fond matron's arms.

Immediately our wagons are on the way. The clustering village roofs
and the church spire sink down behind. We are too full of excitement
to share the silence of our elders, and the passing