"An' what did he say?" "Niver a wurrud. But he rose the Irish cry, an' wint leppin' away like a buck-goat." A mingled groan burst forth, which subsiding, Terry proceeded to improve the solemn opportunity.

"An' no doubt annybody to look at Johnny Meagher wud a belaved he'd outlasht a dozen the build o' me. But death plazes itsel' wid tall or short, fat or lane, rich or ragged, an' no dictation from anny wan. There's the bonanzy kings, now! They live in grand houses wid more rooms nor a cock's tail has feathers, but they must coom down to wan narrer appartment by an' by."

A rising reflection carried Terry's solemn conviction into the regions of the unspeakable.

Mrs. McArdle's ejaculation, expressive of profound enlightenment, defies orthography. "There was Jack McCarthy," continued Terry. "He was a dumpsman along o' me. He'd shovel away ez virtuous from morning to night. Well, wan avening he wint from supper to the groc'ry fer a cahn o' beer. Whin this was drunk be us all, he wint ez hearty ez me this minute I'm tellin' yez out toward the shtables. We niver missed him that night; an' in the morning we found him tramped dead in a shtall. Begorra, the horses was the lasht human beings that seen him alive!"

"When yez come to depart, it's a short day," said McArdle, solemnly. "An' think o' the long day yez are going to." Then, pausing, she added, reflectively, "Musha, what'll yez do if yez don't git to the good?"

Neither Terry nor any other listener was prepared to answer this pregnant query, save by renewed groaning, which spontaneous indulgence in wordless melancholy was instantly set at naught.

At that clear, joyous peal of laughter, coming from the near distance, every ear was alert, every pulse healthily quickened.

แ Glory to God!" cried McArdle, huskily enthusiastic.

She caught up the smoky candle, thus disturbing a sober dance of shadows, and encouraging their wild revel. Standing at the door of her chamber, which was higher than the camp-kitchen and dining-room by a flight of rickety steps, she held the light high, peering downward.

Below, all was shadow. The long, blackened tables already set against the early breakfast; the long, low benches; the bending rafters cobwebbed with mystery.

Darting through this gloom, a ray of light quickly found a flutter of bright drapery. The voice which had laughed came in merry question :

"What can be the matter up there? Are you telling ghost stories ?" Then, to an unseen attendant: "I'm all right, now-Maggy is here. I will go home with her."

Meanwhile, McArdle was shouting: "Glory to God! its hersel'. The young missus coomin' to see pore Jerry!"

At this, and the confirmatory hurry of footfalls, first one then another arose, until every man present, the invalid excepted, stood waiting in respectful silence.

Evelyn M. Ludlum.

HERBERT SPENCER's parting words were friendly criticism of American character and habits. The epitome of his speech was this: "With the American, work has become a passion. Eagerly pursuing future good, he

almost ignores what good the passing day offers him; and when the future good is gained, he neglects that while striving for some still remoter good. Immense injury is being done by this high-pressure life-the

physique is being undermined. When relaxation becomes imparative, life becomes dreary from lack of its sole interest-the interest in business. In taking his pleasures, there is not that abandonment to the moment which is requisite for full enjoyment. He takes them hurriedly. There needs a revised ideal of life. Among ancient people, the ideal of life was to be a successful warrior. Among moderns, business has been substituted for war, as the purpose of existence. The spread of the strongest races was the result of the ancient ideal, and the subjection of the powers of nature to human use results from the modern ideal. The future ideal will differ from both of these. It will be directed to complete living, to a better adjustment of labor and enjoyment. We have had too much of the gospel of work. It is time to preach the gospel of relaxation, and to reform intemperance in work."

This speech of the profound thinker and philosopher has been adopted by the press throughout the United States as a text for homilies on the evils of too much work and too little play. But is it not Utopian?

It is very easy to preach the gospel of relaxation, and to win converts to the theory; but to the mass of mankind relaxation is a bliss that may be hoped for, but not attained. Social and physical enjoyment alternating with labor of mind or body, and the possession of good health and cheerful spirits, would make the human condition one of supreme happiness.

But how are these things to be attained? To secure happiness is the aim or incentive of all human effort. The degree and quality of the happiness attainable, though greatly influenced by the emotional character of the individual, are mainly dependent upon the present possession, and the expectation of the uninterrupted future possession, of the necessaries, the comforts, and the luxuries of life; those terms having a signification according to the physical, social, and intellectual status of each individual. Therefore, to have present good—that is to say, relaxation -involves the possession of more means than are requisite for immediate wants, and

for those of the future when age and declining health make labor impossible.

Moreover, happiness, being a condition of the mind, and subject to the habits, tastes, and character, intellectual and moral, of the individual, is as varied an emotion as is the physical appetite. What brings disgust and misery to one would be luxury and bliss to another. When, therefore, an individual voluntarily follows a business in accord with his habits, taste, and character, shall another man, of different habits, taste, and character, declare that happiness is not to be found in that business or the method of conducting it?

A miser may, from love of accumulation and the happiness it affords him, deny himself the common comforts of life. A religious enthusiast may find happiness in selfdenial, in torturing the flesh, and in many methods of self-inflicted suffering.

Philosophy shall vainly expostulate against such action: it cannot control it. What it may do is to teach wisdom. Wisdom is the intelligent use of knowledge. Therefore, to secure wise conduct, and the highest and best quality of happiness, necessitates the acquisition of knowledge, and the cultivation of intelligence. These being accomplished, the best and wisest means of happiness will be sought, and the most blissful happiness will be possible.

Labor-or business, as Spencer terms it— is directed mainly to those ends, and becomes a source of delight under the inspiring influence of hope of success.

Business men, as a class, take rest and relaxation in reasonable amount. They work assiduously in business affairs, but not to a degree inconsiderate nor detrimental to health. Can the same be said of literary men-of Spencer, for instance?

The laboring classes have few other delights than the hope to save enough while young and strong to live upon with comfort when old. Spencer's suggestions, if made to the rich in their own interest, were not appropriate; and if made to the poor, were not practicable.

The people of California from 1850 to

The explanation of that condition is found in the fact that unexampled prosperity was universal.

Labor, or industry, or business, which ever it be termed, whether physical or intellectual, was rewarded to a degree unprecedented. The product of one day's business was sufficient to support life for a week, often for a month, sometimes for a year. The present moment was one of dazzling, golden light, that came as from a new sun that had risen never to set. The "future good" gave no anxiety. It was assured by the bountiful present. The people were honest, unselfish, generous, kind-hearted, joyous, and just. Yet they were of the same race and blood and early habits as those of whom and to whom Spencer spoke. But they had no incentive nor temptation to be other than as they were. There was no struggle for the survival of the fittest. They did not need, nor would any people in like situation need, a missionary to preach the gospel of relaxation.

When the cause of this happy condition ceased, so did its effects; and the normal state of toil and trouble, of striving for the present and the future, of luxury for the fortunate and misery for the unfortunate re-appeared, and the ideal of life melted away before its reality.

During the last twenty years, society in the United States has become more manifestly divided into two classes-rich and

It cannot be said that of these classes the rich do not have all the enjoyment which money can procure or taste and ingenuity devise. The majority of Americans are of the class who toil at daily bodily or mental labor: first, because it is a struggle for existence, and, second, because by reason of education they have learned that life has elysian fields, the path to which, hope tells them, may be shortened by unabated industry. The American loves enjoyment if he can get it without violation of his duty to himself or to those dependent upon him. does not take as much relaxation as would be most conducive to his personal good and happiness, the fault lies in the system which has made it impossible; a system which has aggregated too large a part of the fruits of labor into the hands of those who do not labor; which has made it possible for one man to accumulate a hundred millions, while a million men cannot accumulate a hundred dollars.

If he

Had the philosopher preached to these men of millions the gospel of philanthropy for those out of whose toil and tears their millions have been gained, his sermon would have had practical value. When the rich are willing to shorten the hours of labor, to make the reward of industry more proportionate to the profits of capital, to create and encourage industries for the fitting and honorable employment of women, so that they may not be a burden to others, then it will not be necessary to preach the gospel of relaxation.

Man labors from necessity, not from mere love of work. But to urge him to stop and enjoy himself is like advising the man upon the tread-mill that too much exercise is not healthful; or, like Tapley's advice to Chuzzlewit, overwhelmed with despair and disappointment, "Now is the time to be jolly!" Alfred Wheeler.

No howling wind, no groan and creak of trees in the storm, no sound of rain driven against the window-panes; but down over everything sifts the soft snow, as silently as if there were some secret about its coming. Swiftly and more swiftly it falls, flake piling upon flake, until the whole landscape is changed. Fallen logs, scattered stumps of pines, low shrubbery, all the small diversities of surface that we have been familiar with, are hidden; and we see only gentle undulations, with here and there disconnected, irrelevant-looking sticks or clumps, and the tops of diminished fences that measure the depth of the snow. Among the pines you may see, once in a while, a charred stump, with only a weird branch or two, holding in its black embrace a little heap of snow that clings to the forsaken thing with something almost like warmth. The tall pines and firs are loaded to their utmost, and when some branch can hold no more and drops its beautiful burden, springing back relieved, there is a little snow-shower upon the branches below, and they are surprised into doing likewise.

Up the mountain-side, as far as you can see through the storm, the dark, straight trunks of the pines look almost black in sharp outline against the dazzling white of the snow. These pines are glorious things. Whether the dust of summer climbs to their very tops, or the wild storms of winter make them rock and quiver, or the weight of snow drags their boughs down even to breaking, they never lose their majesty. And no matter how dense the forest may be, a pine-tree has a lonely look, seeming to have more concern with the stars of heaven than with the earth. The stars themselves never shine so near as when you look up through the pines to see them.

Here in the town the silence of the mountain seems to have enveloped us. Each cottage is still beneath its snowy roof. If a

slow line of smoke curls heavily from the chimney, it is the only sign of life the house presents. There is no rumble of wagons in the street, nor sound of horses' feet: only a faint chirp from the tiny snow-birds in the nearest trees, and perhaps, at intervals, the jolly jingle of sleigh-bells. Then everything is still again. Such silence in a storm has a strange awe in it. One might think that all the forces that make the winds howl and rage over the hills of San Francisco, drive the pitiless rain through the streets, and make the big bay roar and tumble on its beaches must be hidden here, and be working in mysterious, ominous secrecy. What wonder that the mountain peoples, the world over, have such wild legends, and such a spirit of mystery in their superstitions?

If you would see the curious lines the snow takes in falling, look straight up in the air, and watch the flakes in their fluttering descent, tipping and bumping against each other, and joining, two or three together, as they near the ground. They look aimless enough: you would not suspect them of combining to so transform the village that the commonest huts are picturesquely decorated, and there is no dirt nor ugliness to be

seen.

The back yards all through the town might be taken for beautifully arranged gardens: for who is to know that it is a hencoop here, or an old barrel there, that the snow is gracefully covering? The bare orchard trees are beautified by the contrast of dark branches and white phantoms of branches, and you half believe that the dark is only a shadow. There is one figure in the streets, however, that no depth of snow can translate into a thing of beauty, and that is the wandering cow. She pulls her aimless body along, jingling a tuneless bell, and lowing drearily. She gives you much the same. sensation that you have when an organ-grinder in the city attaches himself to your street and number, for an indefinite period.