, tells a story of a fairy, whose fate obliged
her to pass certain seasons in the form of a snake. If anybody injured
her during those seasons, he never after shared in the rich blessings
that were hers to give; but those who, in spite of her ugly looks,
pitied and cared for her, were crowned for the rest of their lives with
good fortune, had all their wishes granted, and became truly blessed.

"Such a spirit," adds the Deacon, "is Liberty. And neither we nor our
country can be kept safe without her. Since, too, Liberty cannot be kept
safe without sincerity and manhood--"

There, my dears, this gives you a good start. Now go on with the sermon.

A CONGRESS OF BIRDS.

Brooklyn, N.Y.

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I have something to tell you about some of
your friends the birds, and perhaps your chicks can help answer the
questions the anecdote raises.

One summer evening of 1846, at Catskill Village, vast numbers of
whip-poor-wills and swallows began to gather from all directions
about an hour before sunset, and in a few minutes the sky was dark
with their wings. They assembled above a high hill, and over the
cemetery which was on this hill they circled and wheeled and mixed
together, calling and twittering in a state of great excitement.
They were so many that, standing anywhere in the cemetery, which
covered about forty acres, one might have knocked them down by
hundreds with an ordinary fishing-rod.

The birds, though of such opposite natures, mingled in a friendly
way, and seemed to be trying to settle some question of importance
to both parties. Soon, the sun sank behind the mountains, and, while
his last rays were fading, the birds went off in squads, as they had
come, and all quickly disappeared.

Whence they came, whither they went, and why they assembled, are yet
mysteries to, your friend,

Z.R.B.

MIDSUMMER NOON.

Here are some lines I heard a summer or two ago. It seems to me that
John Clare---the man who wrote them, I believe--must have made them when
he was near my pulpit, for they tell just how things are here these
sultry noons.

"The busy noise of man and brute
Is on a sudden hushed and mute;
Even the brook that leaps along
Seems weary of its merry song,
And, so soft its waters sleep,
Tired silence sinks in slumber deep.

"The taller grass upon the hill,
And spider's thread