* "THE EVENIN' HYMN" When the hot summer daylight is dyin', And the mist through the valley has rolled, And the soft velvet clouds ter the west'ard Are purple with trimmings of gold, Then, down in the medder-grass, dusky, The crickets chirp out from each nook, And the frogs with their voices so husky Jine in from the marsh and the brook.

There was a little strip of a medder-lot, and an orchard up on the mountain, where we used to make redstreak cider that beat the Dutch; but we hadn't pastur' land enough to keep more'n two cows, and altogether I knew 'twasn't any use to think of bringin' a family on to't.