THE SNOW-FALL. 
BY MAY RILEY SMITH. 
Like dainty white doves, from the clouds swooping 
low, 
Like petals from lilies in Heaven that blow ; 
Like down from the wings of the angels of light. 
Come the silent, still-footed snow-flakes at night. 
They light In my window, and brood on the sill, 
With milky-white pinions down-folded and still; 
While baby stands cooing inside, at the pane, 
And cries, “ Come, and look at the pretty white rain 
The rain, when he comes, sits and sings on the eaves, 
And drops crystal music on roof and on leaves, 
Makes love to the flower*, wherever he goes. 
And wears twinkling bells on his angers and toes ! 
The whlte-sandall'd mow come* wttli velvety tread, 
And folds her white fleece o'er the slumbering dead; 
She 'broiders a mantle of ermine, and then 
She wrap* up the daisies till spring comes again. 
How tenderly, too. In the lanes and the streets. 
She covers each roughness and stain that she meets! 
And even the hedges, so brown and so hare. 
Are lovely with white roses blossoming there! 
Our little brown cottage Is battered and worn, 
Its hinges are rusty, its shutters are torn ; 
But a beautiful hand through the dark, quiet night, 
lias covered each flaw, and has painted It white! 
O, sometimes 1 wish that somo hand, like the snow. 
Would lay a white palm o’er our faults here below ! 
Who knows, but Instead of the blackness and stain, 
Men’s lives might bloom into white roses again! 
AGNES BURMANN; 
OIR, HE -A-ISTID SHE. 
Translated from the Norwegian of Chrlstof Jansen 
for Moore’s llural New-Yorker. 
CHAPTER II. 
Agnes at Church—On the Roadside—Good 
Friends. 
[Continued from page 18, Iasi No.] 
Next morning the Student sat at his 
studies; went out at noon, and in the even¬ 
ing wrote until supper, which, as usual, he 
ate alone. The day past was a dream—as 
when the traveler inquires of you his way, 
you answer and continue your road, and 
think no more of it, I3ut he remembered 
her. When he saw the friendly white Par¬ 
sonage over amongst the trees, he thought of 
how she passed her time, but lie could never 
make up iris mind to go there. It chanced 
that he sometimes saw her in the meadows, 
or watering her flowers in the garden ; then 
lie always stopped and watched her, but he 
never went out on purpose to see her, and 
never stopped when he met her during their 
walks, but simply bowed and passed on. 
He had met the Pastor once since the patty, 
and when he thanked* him for his late hos¬ 
pitably the latter asked him i! he would not 
come again. The student had thanked him, 
and said perhaps he might, but however he 
never did, for he was not bold enough t.o go 
without a special invitation; and so it hap¬ 
pened that when he thought ot going lie al¬ 
ways had so much to do. Thus a whole 
year went by. Agnes was to be confirmed 
the Sunday following, and this had readied 
the Student’s cars. He was eany at church. 
The service was very long, and the congre¬ 
gation went in and out to avoid becoming 
sleepy. Rut the Student remained the 
whole time in His pew, watching every 
change in the expression of Agnes’ face, as 
she answered the questions put to her, as she 
sang, and while she listened to the sermon 
and knelt at the Altar to receive her father’s 
blessing.f How was it that he thought she 
had become so much older; could she real¬ 
ly be the same? This young girl, in the 
long block dress, the pale, serious face, the 
delicate, trembling lips, and dark tearful 
eyes—was this the mad Agnes who flew 
about so lively and gay, and with whom he 
had waltzed a year ago ? It was indeed she, 
but more developed, and subdued than 
then, She stood there humbly in the pres¬ 
ence of her God, with clasped hands, uncon¬ 
scious that any one noticed her or thought of 
her, or that she (as ihe Paslor’s daughter) 
stood first at the Altar. lie went home,— 
She went home,—and everything became as 
before. 
It happened some weeks after that, while 
walking in the neighborhood, the Student 
met Agnes, he bowed and went on, but 
stopping suddenly turned around and look¬ 
ed alter her; then, forming a sudden resolu¬ 
tion, he followed her. She heard him com¬ 
ing, and her feet began to trip still faster 
along, but he soon overtook her. 
“ Good morning, Miss Agnes,” he said, 
raising his hat 
“ Good morning,” she said in a low tone, 
blushing, and without looking at him. 
“ Allow mo to congratulate you on your 
confirmation," he said, heartily, at the same 
lime holding out his hand. 
She only answered “ Thank you," and 
went on. 
lie was not daunted, but walked on be¬ 
side her. 
“ Well! does it seem strange to be grown 
up ?” he asked, after a long pause. 
“ No; I think it is just as before." 
* This is a Swedish custom. When you have spent 
an evening anywhere you ought always to thank the 
Master or the house the first time you see him. 
+ In the Lutheran Church the parish clergyman con¬ 
firms—a Bishop not helng necessary to perform the 
rite, as In the English Church. 
“ Is there no difference at all ? Is your 
life Just the same ?—the same thoughts, the 
same dreams? Do you never long for a 
change ?” 
“ Oil, no; I never think about that.” 
“ And you never find it tiresome and dull 
at home ?” 
“Oli, no.” 
“ But what do you do all day long ?” he 
persisted. 
" What do I do ?” repeated Agnes ; and 
for the first time she looked at him, and 
laughed, for she had never before heard 
such a question. “ Oh, I have a great deal 
to do. First, I get up; then I get papa’s 
breakfast, skim the milk and practise n little 
at the piano ; then I prepare the dinner, and 
in the afternoon I sit and sew, or do some¬ 
thing else. I look after my flowers and help 
Marie milk the cows, and so evening comes 
round again." 
“But during the long winter evenings; 
then 1 suppose you sit and read ?” 
“ Read 1 how should I find lime for that ?” 
asked Agnes, looking as if that was the 
most impossible thing in the world. 
“No time to read!” exclaimed the Stu¬ 
dent, quite astonished. 
“ No; but papa sometimes reads aloud to 
me.” 
“ And do yon like that ?” 
“ Oil, no; they are always useful books, and 
do not amuse me.” 
“ But do you never read yourself?” 
“ Oil, yes, a little. I have read ‘ Robinson 
Crusoe,’ and a book of anecdotes called, 
‘ For Foolish Readers,’ and au old book 
which I found on papa’s book shelf." 
The Student could not help laughing. 
“ Now, I am sure I said something stu¬ 
pid," thought Agnes, becoming quite red. 
He noticed it and instantly checked himself. 
“ I hope you do not think I am laughing 
at you, Miss Agnes, for 1 have certainly no 
reason for doing so; but it is really so rare 
to hear that a young girl of your age knows 
so iitlle of the world, and has not devoured 
a mass of novels and miscellaneous literature 
before she understands them.” 
“ I have read a few religious books that I 
received at my confirmation,” said Agnes, 
as if to make amends (or her former speech. 
“ By whom were they written ?" 
“ I do not know who wrote them, but they 
were bound in black and gold.” 
The Student bit his lips to restrain a smile, 
but in vain. Agnes noticed it. 
“ I know what kind of books you mean,” 
tie said, “ and, strange to say, I have had a 
book in my pocket several days in the hope 
of meeting you. It is also bound in black 
and gold. I should like to know what you 
think of it, if you can find time, sometime, 
to read it. It is worth while, I assure you.” 
The Student drew u little book from his 
pocket, carefully wrapped in paper. Agnes 
thanked him and took the book. 
“ And now I must say good-by, at least 
for to-day,” he said, stopping; “1 am going 
this way;" ami so he left her. 
“ That tiresome Student," thought Agnes, 
when lie had left her. “ Why could he not 
leave me alone? I am sure I have made 
him think me very silly;” and she hurried 
home. 
“ Only read a few old books—and ‘ Rob¬ 
inson Crusoe l’ thought the Student, smiling 
to himself. “ So innocent and childish!” 
When Agnes came up into her room, she 
opened the book he had given her and read 
the title page—“The Destination and Life 
of Woman, Considered in an Evangelical 
Light, by A hole Mongo 1” 
When next the Student met Agnes he 
asked her if she had read the hook. 
“ Yes,” she said, “ but not quite, either.” 
“ IIow do you like it?” 
" Pretty well; but I understand hooks 
like that so little.” 
“ You understand it so little?" he repeat¬ 
ed; that is a book one should read more 
than once, and a little at a time. You have 
noi finished it, I think you said?” 
“ No, I have a few pages unread ; but you 
can have it back again, if you like.” 
“ Oil, no; there is no occasion for j’ou to 
hurry. It only lies on my shelf and gets 
dusty, so that it may just as well remain 
with you ; if you will keep it, you can call 
it a Confirmation Gift, if you like. But tell 
me, have you read Orvar Odd’s tales, by 
Oiilexsciilager, or Iugemann’s novels.” 
“ No, I have not. Have you them ?” 
“ Yes, and I will lend them to you, if you 
like.” 
“ Oh, will you ? but I am afraid papa 
would not like it. Novels ?” 
“ Say that I have lent them to you, and I 
am sure that he will have no objection.” 
“ 1 have heard that novels are so amusing. 
We had A servant at home who had lived in 
town, and she said the daughters of the 
house sat up half the night to read, for they 
were so interested that they could not leave 
off." 
“ Well, if it should come to that, 1 hope 
you will not read them.” 
“ Oh, I do not think that is likely to hap¬ 
pen in my case, for to tell the truth, 1 do not 
care much about reading. When I have 
time to spare I like to go out to climb tbe 
mountains, run about tbe heaths, and cross 
the brook by the stepping stones. The wind 
blows so fresh, the birds sing, the sun shines 
througli the trees, and then 1 feel so happy.” 
The Student’s eyes dilated and he looked 
at her searchlugly. 
“ Ah, you thiuk so,—you feel at home 
amongst the trees and birds under the blue 
sky; and then you feel as if some inner 
voice tried to make itself heard, and you 
have a desire to cry out.” 
“Yes, something like that; and I do call 
out, when I am alone, so that the echoes re¬ 
sound in the rocks and valleys. Do you do 
that too ?” 
“No,” answered the Student sadly; “I 
feel no longer so, but there was a time when 
I did so—in my early childhood—but it is 
passed long since.” 
“ And you have lost the feeling ? Does 
every one lose it when they get older ?” asked 
Agnes, seriously. 
“ I do not know, but I think that those 
who retain this feeling are not happy. They 
who lose it are much happier, for they be¬ 
come sensible of another and much better 
one.” 
“ A better one 1—is there anything better 
than joy ?” 
“ Yes, sorrow. Yon look as though you 
thought I jested, hut my words are !n earnest. 
Sorrow is belter than Jay for it is only when 
one lias experienced sorrow that one can 
appreciate joy. But this is a sad subject, to 
speak of now, and you cannot understand 
me. But in a few yearn—” 
“ Do you think I shall have felt sorrow 
then?” 
“ I do not know; hut then you will under¬ 
stand me, for then you will no longer awaken 
the mountain echo with your voice.” 
“ Are you sure of that?” 
“ I am. But here is your gate and you 
arc at home. Farewell; may I send you 
the books ?” 
“Oh yes; thank you very much.” 
“ now strange he is,” thought Agnes, as 
she walked up the avenue. “ But lie is very 
kind to me, and 1 aui not as much afraid of 
him as 1 was at first. But, how strange that 
lie can care to talk to me!" 
“ She is quite the same,” thought the Stu¬ 
dent ; “ quite a child. But the expression of 
her face at church. Surely under this calm, 
childish surface, there must he thoughts and 
feelings; but they are asleep, they have not 
yc„ wakened within her. Her wings are 
tied, t. they will soon shake off their band 
and rise 3 the ft -—Air. Wc shall tn-e il' old 
Ohlensch. agkk can loosen them. Monod 
could not; it was her face in church that de¬ 
ceived me—hut no, it did not deceive me, 
either. The future will show.” 
The Student never went to tbe Parsonage, 
so that the highway was their only meeting 
place. A ONES no longer sought to avoid him 
when they met; on the contrary, she was 
often the first to speak. 
“Oh, many, many thanks for the delight¬ 
ful books,” she said. “ They were so inter¬ 
esting,” she added, putting her hand on her 
breast. “ I have read them once through, 
but may I keep them to read once more?” 
“ Read them us many times as you like,” 
he answered. 
“I read them aloud to Marie, and she 
thought them terrible.” 
“ Did she thiuk so ?” said the Student. 
“ Oh! how nice it must have been to have 
lived in those times," continued Agnes, vi¬ 
vaciously ; “ don't you think so ?—among all 
those knights, with gold embroidered cloaks 
and feathers in their hats; and to sec tourna¬ 
ments and dances.” 
“ Yes, and to have had a swain like Klaus 
Siurmen or Karl of Rise* by your side to 
talk to, instead of an old Student.” 
“ Yes, men are not now what they were 
then,” said Agnes. 
“ No, our knights of the present day wear 
stays, and look washed out,” said the Student. 
“ But if I had lived then, I-” 
“ You would have seen all those beautiful 
things, you were going to say ? But you can 
see them now, Froken Agnes.” 
“ Can I V 1 exclaimed Agnes, looking at 
him in amazement. 
“Yes; it quite depends on yourself,” he 
answered. “ Down by the sea const lie the 
ancient battlefields. There Angantvk and 
his brothers are buried. At night, when the 
wind howls and blows,—when the dark 
clouds hurry like angry black horses through 
the skies,—when the billows beat their 
beads, crowned with white froth, against 
the beach,—then the bights are encircled 
with flames. Heuvor appears and invokes 
his dead father, then the thunder breaks 
forth, the rocks open, and the words of the 
dead mau are homo along by the storm 
winds to you. You tremble; you feel an 
icy hand touch you; you shut the window, 
make the sign of the cross, and look around 
to see if no one be in the room ; and when 
the moonlight spreads itself, like a silver 
mantle, over field and mountain, and every¬ 
thing glitters in its pale light, the mist of 
the sea, transparent and thin as a veil, dis¬ 
appears in the distance; then comes the Elf 
*Warrlora In lugemann’u tales. 
to Orvar Odd with a shirt woven out of 
moonbeams. lie dances playfully before 
him on the grass until everything dissolves 
into mist; and you see again the white 
stones, the trees, and the water forcing its 
way between the rocks with its sad momen¬ 
tous murmur.” 
The Student became silent; but Agnes 
still listeued with half-parted lips. She stood 
thus for a few minutes, as if dreaming; but 
suddenly recollecting herself she said, with 
a smile:—“Now you are making fan of me. 
You know, as well os I, that all this took 
place in Denmark.” 
“Denmark, Norway, Germany,—they are 
all the same. In the world of imagination 
there are no names. One need only say, ‘ I 
will,’ and behold, it stands before you. And 
in this manner you can, in the middle of 
winter, fly away to the Orient with its odo¬ 
riferous roses and golden fruits, and in the 
middle of summer you may be in Green- 
lands’ snow and ice.” 
“ I know very well that I can dream all 
this, but awake-” 
“1( -’ou can see it when you are asleep, 
you may s v * it when awake as often as you 
allow your thoughts to wander away to the 
world of fancy.” 
“ IIow can you, who are so wise, think 
about lb esc tilings ?” 
“ You are also wise, Agnes, and can there¬ 
fore think about them, too. The wise man 
can see what the fool cannot. That is why a 
child is often wiser than a grown up person, 
for a child sees. A child puts life and soul 
into everything, but a grown up person 
often deprives everything of life and soul. 
And the world considers this wisdom. The 
grown np person lakes a flower and pulls it 
to pieces to count its pistils and stamens; 
but the child takes it in its baud, is delighted 
with its lovely color and sweet perfume, and 
thinks to itself, 1 1 wonder if the fairy I read 
of in the story lived here?’ And while the 
chihl imagines heaven as peopled with 
angels, the grownup person only looks upon 
it as a roof which is sometimes gray and 
sometimes blue. The child, after saying its 
evening prayer, reposes confidently in Jesus, 
but the grown up person lies awake fearing 
fine or thieves, or wonders how much he 
will sell the next. day. Now, which is the 
wiser, the child or the grown up person? 
The Scripture says the child, but the world 
says the contrary. But, at any rate, the 
Scripture has the key to Heaven, and the 
Scripture says * whosoever will not receive 
tlie kingdom of God as a little child shall 
not enter therein.’ ” 
“ Are there people, then, who do not l>e- 
lieve in God?” asked Agnes, seriously. 
“ You ask if there are any f Yes, very 
many ! You will see and hear them when 
you go into the world. They laugh at and 
blaspheme the very holiest things, and oth¬ 
ers admire them and call them clever.” 
“And these are the grown up people? 
You say that the grown up people do so 
many wrong things that I shall be afraid of 
growing up.” 
“ You need not be afraid, for we must all 
grow up. The question is if we can, as in 
our childhood, content ourselves with the 
simple thought that God will say, ‘ Thou 
art one of my children; for thee shall my 
door he opened.’ ” 
“ I don’t think that can be so difficult,” 
answered Agnes, “for 1 think it so clear 
that it cannot be otherwise." 
“ Be not too sure. When one is young, 
one's eyes iU’e strong, but when one grows 
older they are shortsighted or dim, and then 
oue must procure spectacles. But do not 
fear, for in the Bible are these words, * When 
God is with us, who can he against us ?’ ” 
When they separated that day the Student 
stood long and watched her. “ She is cour¬ 
ageous and fearless, and is now beginning to 
raise her wings. Soon she will fly from 
heaven to earth, through the air, over the 
sea, untiring, breathless—but happy. Then 
after a time her wings will become tired, her 
feet weary, her breast perhaps wounded; 
she will then long for peace and repose— 
where will she then fly?” 
After this the Student often met Agnes. 
He told her stories of the Vikings. He 
spoke to her of foreign lands—of their in¬ 
habitants and customs. She listened with 
delight, a new life seemed to open before 
her of which she had never dreamed; she 
began to think over all she had heard. She 
no longer cared to hear the mountain echo; 
but, instead, when sbe went out, she liked 
to sit down in some retired spot and wonder 
if it were perhaps that way Sverre drove 
when he went down to Troudhjem; per¬ 
haps he had sat down to rest just in the 
same place where she sat. She liked to get 
supper ready early, so as to have some time 
to read her beloved books. Sbe was no 
longer afraid of the Student; on the con¬ 
trary, she liked to hear him talk, for he had 
seen and read so muck, Olid best of all, he 
related what he knew so well, that it seemed 
us though she saw it before her. “I think 
he must be much wiser than papa,” she 
thought, and her lather would look up from 
bia book to ask her if she had remembered 
to put the fish in the water, and to iron his 
collars for the morrow—but then Agnes 
was far away.—[To be continued. 
oo 
abbatli Ilcabing. 
<£> 
MY HERITAGE. 
BY CHARLOTTE X. CORONER. 
1 am not rich In earthly goods, 
But heritage of soul, 
Am dowered t»y boundless Gelds 
From south to icy pole. 
Upon the fair sstute outspread 
Are gardens filled with bloom-, 
And bubbling Streams, and singing birds. 
And orders of perfume. 
But, best ot ah, upon these lands 
Rises a mansion fair. 
Upon whose frescoed wuUs are thoughts 
Fainted In many u prayer. 
Broad, rambling isles run to and fro, 
Powdered with burning stars, 
Where fairy forms keep time in dance 
To music’s varied bars. 
There flowers of every ollrae are seen, 
Bending with lowly grace. 
That wear a crown ot golden bloom 
Or own a blushing face. 
Bird*, too, of rarest song abound 
Prison'd in rein* of gold. 
And in each niche of vaulted arch 
Arc roses old. 
Some halls are stocked with ancient lore 
Which memory bound 
After it fell from priestly hands 
Upon ray ground. 
And some are filled with music grand, 
Which sweeps along 
In waves of dreamlike melody, 
Or saintly song. 
The sun, which makes Ibis home of mine 
With light to glow, 
Is Love; and by its life divine 
The graces grow. 
I in never lonely in these walls. 
For saints come there; 
And children with angelic grace 
Are everywhere. 
So, though my mansion's In my brain, 
Unseen by you. 
1 yet am rich, with all it holds, 
In treasure true. 
And ye, whose wealth can pass away. 
Arc poor Indeed; 
For Heavenly doors are closed on you, 
And none tain lead. 
THOUGHTS BY THINKERS. 
The Problem Solved by (he Cross, 
Bishop Simpson, in a recent sermon said: 
“ I can imagine three thoughts to have been 
(if 1 may use the expression without irrever¬ 
ence) struggling in the bosom of the Deity 
when man fell. The first thought was that 
the law must be maintained; the second, 
that, sin must be shown to be exceeding sin¬ 
ful, for sin could not be pardoned without 
an exhibition of God’s hatred to sin, and 
the eternal distance between God’s holiness 
amt the transgression of the law ; and the 
third, how to save mau and yet honor this 
law. In other words, the great question 
was how to show the supremacy of law, the 
sinfulness of sin, and vet save the poor sin¬ 
ner. But difficult as it, was, we see all these 
three thoughts harmonized at the cross of 
Christ.” 
IIow to Trent CliriMtinn GiicsIh. 
ReV. Dr. Prime tells the story of Chris¬ 
tian hospitality lie witnessed in a church he 
visited recently—how the wealthiest mem¬ 
bers of the church acted as ushers and took 
pains to see that all “ strangers within their 
gates” were comfortably seated. He flays:— 
“ These gentlemen acting as ushers or door¬ 
keepers, were among the wealthiest and best 
known of our merchant* and business men ; 
any one of them could buy the ehurcU.il it 
were in the market. 1 noticed one of them 
conducting a poorly-clad young woman, who 
might be a “distressed sewing girl,” up the 
middle aisle. She lmd come for the bread of 
life. She had no money to buy tbe Gospel 
with anywhere, and why should she not 
have the crumbs that fell from the rich men’s 
table. Unknown, and perhaps expofctiug to 
stand within the gates of Zion, but willing to 
stand anywhere for the sake of hearing the 
word, she had come to Uio church, ami was 
among the crowd at the door. Tim rich 
man, in goodly apparel, singled her out from 
those waiting to be seated, mid led her up to 
one of tbe most eligible pews in the house; 
two or three gentlemen came out of their 
places and let her in, and she was as pleas¬ 
antly seated to enjoy the service as any lady 
in the congregation, and all this was done so 
much as a matter of course, that the humble 
individual thus waited upon, would be just 
as much at her ease, as in the homes of her 
kindred and friends. 
“ When all the pews were filled, camp 
stools were brought in by the sexton, and as 
fast as they were placed were filled. Every 
camp stool had a back to U. In somo con¬ 
gregations the stool is a stool, and nothing 
more. To put a sinner on such a thing may 
be well, if you would punish him for Ins 
sins. But to put a sinner or a saint on a 
stool without a back, and expect, htm to 
hear the Gospel for an hour, with comfort 
and edification, is too much to expect with¬ 
out miraculous interposition. The human 
heart, may be very hard and the neck of the 
wicked stiff, but men’s und women's backs 
are not hard or stiff enough to bear such 
penance as is imposed when the sufferer is 
compelled to sit bolt upright for an hour uud 
a-half on a stool without support. Having 
suffered it, I know. A few Sundays ago I 
was on such a stool of repentance in church ; 
and I did repent—of coming to the church 
—and determined not to go again, unless 
with a prospect of better things Ilian astool 
in the aisle and the sharp point of n pew 
door scroll sticking against my spiual col¬ 
umn. It is a very small matter for a rich 
congregation to provide comfortable seats 
for strangers. You would not ask a gentle¬ 
man coming to your house to take a seat on 
a backless bench, so you ought not to offer 
such hospitality to strangers coming to your 
place of worship.” 
J 
