hail, all hail!"

What are these prophecies and preludes golden,
Legends of light, and clarions that blow?
What is this secret of the skies, long holden
In star-girt solitudes, disclosing now?
'Tis manifest--'tis here; the doubt is done:
The day-heart leaps and throbs--behold the sun!

CHARLES L. HILDRETH.

A BACKWOODS ROMANCE.

The light of the just-risen moon shone upon the black letters of the
guide-post which said that it was one mile to Clear Lake Settlement, and
illuminated as lonely a region as could be found in the whole world. On
one side of the snowy road a deep pine wood rose tall and dark against
the evening sky. On the other were stretches of field and marsh-land,
which, even when warm and green with summer, had a desolate aspect, with
their background of low, monotonous hills, and both before and behind
were more lonesome hills, more dreary fields, and black masses of
woodland. Not one homely roof was visible in the hard, white moonlight,
nor the glimmer of a lamp, nor a waft of chimney-smoke; not even the
tinkle of a sleigh-bell or a foot-step was to be heard. The silence
seemed whispering to the hills. One star glimmered in the orange
after-glow of sunset.

It had been an unusually warm day for late December, and the faint,
delicate scent of melting snow was still in the air, though it was
growing crisp and cold and icicles were forming on the branches of the
trees.

Two paths which diverged widely as they trailed through the woods came
almost together as they reached the road, and presently from one of
these paths emerged the dark figure of a man carrying a lighted lantern.
Stepping into the road, he paused for a moment at the opening of the
other path, and, hearing footsteps and a slow, grave voice humming an
old love-song, leaned against the creaking guide-post and waited for the
singer to approach. He was young, apparently not over twenty-eight or
nine years, was dressed like a lumberman, and was of somewhat broad and
clumsy build. But in his face, which was clearly revealed by the
flickering flame of the lantern, though he stood in deep shadow, there
was no coarse rusticity. The full but finely-formed features had a most
gentle and amiable cast, resembling those of one of Raphael's cherubs in
their halo of yellow hair. A grave smile lingered in his sea-blue eyes.

As he listened to the voice, however, a look, half amusement, half
annoyance, crossed his mild count