burn it up or give it away to somebody that can use it. But after all
my burnin' and givin', I reckon there'll be a plenty of useless things
left behind me. Here's this Shaker bonnet; now what's the use o'
savin' such a thing? But every time I look at it I think o' Friend
Fanny Lacy and the rest o' the old Shakers, whose like we'll never see
again, and somehow I keep holdin' on to it."

She thrust her hand into the bonnet, and holding it off, regarded it
with a look of deep affection. The straw was yellow with age, and the
lining and strings were faded and time-stained; but looking at it she
saw the Shakers in shining garments, going through the streets of the
old town, in the days when the spirit of Mother Ann burned in the
souls of her followers and the blessing of heaven rested on
Shakertown.

Sighing gently, she laid the precious relic aside and took up the song
she was singing when I called her to the porch to see the April
snow-storm. It was Byrom's "Divine Pastoral:"

The Lord is my shepherd, my guardian and guide;
Whatsoever I want he will kindly provide,
Ever since I was born, it is he that hath crowned
The life that he gave me with blessings all round.
. . . . . . . .
Thro' my tenderest years, with as tender a care,
My soul like a lamb in his bosom he bare;
To the brook he would lead me, whene'er I had need
And point out the pasture where best I might feed.
. . . . . . . .
The Lord is my shepherd; what then shall I fear?
What danger can frighten me whilst he is near?
Not when the time calls me to walk through the vale
Of the Shadow of Death shall my heart ever fail;
Tho' afraid, of myself, to pursue the dark way
Thy rod and thy staff be my comfort and stay,
For I know by thy guidance, when once it is past,
To a fountain of life it will lead me at last.

She sang it to the cheerful tune of Hinton, as oft before when Parson
Page had given it out from the pulpit of Goshen church, and she and
Abram sat side by side singing from the weather-beaten hymnal that lay
now near the Bible on the centre-table. I took it up and turned its
yellow pages, wondering at the queer "buckwheat" notes and reading the
names of the old church music, "Federal Street," whose tones beat the
air like the wing of a tired and home-sick angel; "Windham," that
holds in its minor strains the melancholy wails of an