SEED-TIME AftD HARVEST, 
comb; above, from iron hooks, were hung 
long frames, with apples thickly strung, 
and, fixed upon the wall to dry, were 
wreaths of pumpkin kept for pie. 
Forth from the butt’ry to the fire came 
Aunt Rebecca McIntyre, a sallow spinster 
somewhat old, whose mellow age was sel¬ 
dom told. Her hair was gray, her nose 
was thin, it nearly touched her toothless 
chin. Life’s weary work and constant care 
had worn a face that once was fair. 
Each Sabbath morn, from spring to 
spring within the choir she used to sing, in 
ancient bonnet, cloak and gown, the oldest 
relics in the town; beside the chorister she 
stood, and always did the best she could; 
and while with tuning fork he led, she 
marked his movements with her head, her 
nasal voice rose sharp and queer, above the 
deep-toned viol near. 
She took the black pot from the crane, 
removed the kettle from the chain, and 
made the tea and chicken broth, drew out 
the table, spread the cloth; then from the 
table bright and new, brought the best 
china edged with blue. 
The chores were done, the feast was 
spread, all took their seats and grace was 
said. They ate the savory chicken stew, 
so juicy and so well cooked through, before 
them round rich dumplings swam, on 
steaming plates, cold boiled ham, with 
feathery biscuit warm and light, with cur¬ 
rant jam and honey white, and crowning 
all a good supply, of yellow, meaJy pump¬ 
kin pie. Where such a bounteous feast is 
found, who wouldn’t teach and “board 
around ?” 
The supper done, the father took, from off 
the shelf the sacred Book, and read of One 
who stilled the sea one stormy night in 
Galilee, then kneeling down before his 
chair, he asked the Heavenly Shepherd’s 
care. 
Soon from the group with drowsy heads, 
the children started for their beds, took off 
the little shoes they wore, and left them on 
the kitchen floor, then, bidding all a fond 
“good night,” with pattering feet they 
passed from sight. 
Dear little feet, how soon they stray from 
the old farm-house far away, how soon 
they leave the family fold to walk the shin¬ 
ing streets of gold,!where every hope is real 
and sure, where every heart is kind and 
true, where every dream is bright and 
fair,—Oh! may we meet our loved ones 
there! 
The farmer left his cozy seat, wfith clat¬ 
tering slippers on his feet, went to the cel¬ 
lar and drew a mug of cider, sweet and 
new, and from his broad bins brought the 
best and nicest apples for his* guest. Then 
by the warm fire’s ruddy light, they linger¬ 
ed until late at night, strange legends told, 
and tales that made them all feel nervous 
and afraid. 
But “Aunt Rebecci” watched in vain the 
curling smoke above the crane, she nodded, 
dozed, began to snore, she dropped her 
knitting on the floor, awoke, her eyelids 
heavier grew, arose and silently withdrew. 
Along the creaking stairs she crept to the 
lone chamber where she slept, and close 
the window curtains drew, to screen herself 
from outward view. She stopped the key¬ 
hole of the door, she set the candle on the 
floor, looked'neath the valance—half afraid 
to find a^man in ambuscade, then sitting 
down aside with care she laid her garments 
on a chair, slipped on her ghostly robe of 
white, took of her shoes, blew out the light, 
then, in the darkness from her head re¬ 
moved her wig and went to bed, curled up, 
with chilly sobs and sighs, and quivering 
shut her drowsy eyes. 
Poor single souls who sleep alone, the 
night wind hath a dismal tone to your lone 
ears—you start with fear at every midnight 
sound you hear, when late at night with 
we try heads you creep into your dreary 
beds. The nights seem long, your lips turn 
blue, your feet grow cold—you know they 
do ! 
She slept at last; she heard once more 
the ripple break upon the shore; again she 
sat upon the strand, and some one clasped 
her fair young hand, and words were 
whispered in her ear that long ago she 
loved to hear, and starting up, she cried in 
glee: “I knew you would come back to 
me!” She woke, Alas! no love was there. 
Her thin arms clasped the vacant air. ’Twas 
but a dream. She lived alone. Without 
she heard the night wind moan, while on 
the window-panes • the snow was wildly 
