"The children, too! dear things! they'll be sopping wet; for they shan't stop at home-they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't: you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school; mark that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault- I didn't lend the umbrella."

THE BELLS.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

Hear the sledges with the bells

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells

From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony fore

tells!

Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor,

Now now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging,

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the

bells

Of the bells

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells !

Hear the tolling of the bells

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody

compels !

In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.

And the people-ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman
They are neither brute nor human
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls

A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells-
Of the bells:

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells —

Of the bells, bells, bells

To, the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells!

crys' tal line, like crystals; clear; trans

parent.

eu' pho ny, pleasing or sweet sounds. ghoul (gool), an imaginary demon supposed to devour men and animals. mon' o dy, mournful poem or song for one voice.

pæ' an, a song of praise and triumph. pal' pi ta' ting, quivering; throbbing. Ru' nic, pertaining to the Norsemen. tin' tin nab' u la' tion, a tinkling sound.

tur' bu len cy, commotion; agitation.

EXTRACT FROM "TURN ON THE LIGHT."

FRANCES E. WILLARD.

A while ago I visited the Atlantic Cable Company's office at Sydney, Cape Breton Island, where many thousands of telegraphic messages pass over the wires and under the sea each day. A telegraph man of thirty years' experience showed us about the place.

"That's Berlin," he said, listening to one of the operators; "that's London; that's New York. Here is Wheatstone's automatic transmitter; there are the Western Union Standard quadruples (Edison's); we send four messages now upon one wire at the same time, and could send almost any number, the difficulty being in the adaptation of mechanical contrivances to different systems of notation. Here is the automatic repeater; here the new method of insulation; here are eleven hundred cells, constituting our battery; here are the ends of the cables that start from Heart's Content."

Thus he went on, making the modern miracle as