"Who knocks?" cried Goodman Garvin. The door was open

thrown;

On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and furred, tra fire-light shone.

One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin from his

head:

"Lives here Elkanah Garvin?" "I am he," the Goodman

said.

"Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night is chill with rain.

And the Goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the fire amain. The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the fire-light glistened fair

In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds of dark brown hair.

Dame Garvin looked upon her: "It is Mary's self I see! Dear heart!" she cried, now tell me, has my child come

back to me?"

"My name indeed is Mary," said the stranger, sobbing wild; "Will you be to me a mother? I am Mary Garvin's child!

"She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dying day She bade my father take me to her kinsfolk far away.

"And when the priest besought her to do me no such wrong, She said, 'May God forgive me! I have closed my heart too long.

66.6

"When I hid me from my father, and shut out my mother's

call,

I sinned against those dear ones, and the Father of us all.

"Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks no tie of kin apart;

Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of heart.

"Tell me not the Church must censure: she who wept the

Cross beside

Never made her own flesh strangers, nor the claims of blood denied;

"And if she who wronged her parents, with her child atones

to them,

Earthly daughter, Heavenly mother! thou at least wilt not condemn!'

"Lo, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed mother spake; As we come to do her bidding, so receive us for her sake."

"God be praised!" said Goodwife Garvin, "He taketh, and he gives;

He woundeth, but he healeth; in her child our daughter lives."

"Amen!" the old man answered, as he brushed a tear away, And, kneeling by his hearth-stone, said, with reverence, "Let us pray."

All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew paraphrase, Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his prayer of love and praise.

But he started at beholding, as he rose from off his knee, The stranger cross his forehead with the sign of Papistrie.

"What is this?" cried Farmer Garvin. "Is an English Chuistian's home

A chapel or a mass-house, that you make the sign of Rome?"

Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed his trembling hand, and cried:

"O, forbear to chide my father; in that faith my mother died!

"On her wooden cross at Simcoe the dews and sunshine fall, As they fall on Spurwink's graveyard; and the dear God watches all! ”

The old man stroked the fair head that rested on his knee; "Your words, dear child," he answered, “are God's rebuke to

me.

"Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our faith and hope be one:

Let me be your father's father, let him be to me a son."

When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through the still and frosty air,

From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called to sermon and to prayer,

To the goodly house of worship, where, in order due and fit, As by public vote directed, classed and ranked the people sit;

Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squire before the clown,

From the brave coat, lace-embroidered, to the gray frock, shading down;

From the pulpit read the preacher: "Goodman Garvin and his wife

Fain would thank the Lord, whose kindness has followed them through life,

For the great and crowning mercy, that their daughter, from the wild,

Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), has sent to them her child:

And the prayers of all God's people they ask that they may

prove

Not unworthy, through their weakness, of such special proof of love."

As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couple stood,
And the fair Canadian also, in her modest maidenhood.

Thought the elders, grave and doubting, "She is Papist born and bred;"

Thought the young men, ""Tis an angel in Mary Garvin's stead!"

In War Time-a little volume of thirteen patriotic poems, written at intervals during the Rebellion-was the next of Whittier's publications. Of one of these poems it may be truly said that the late War produced no lyric superior to it in terse and graphic description, and in intense patriotic fervor; and surely none have been received into a wider or more cherished favor. We allude to

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

UP from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall--

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
"Fire!"-out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick as it fell, from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word:
"Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

What GoldOld England, New England.

Snow-Bound was produced in 1865. As might well be inferred from the name, this is a winter idyl. smith's Deserted Village has long been to Whittier's Snow-Bound will always be to Both poems have the flavor of native soil in them. Every page has beauties on it so easy to discern, that the common as well as the cultured mind will at once feel them without an effort.”* /

The scene is laid in the country; its features being an old farm-house, with its usual surroundings. A snow-storm comes on at early morn, and rages all day.

* Atlantic Monthly, for March, 1866.