OW slowly the day dawns, yet how suddenly the sun rises! Did you ever witness a sunrise at sea on a calm morning? You look out of your port-hole before dawn and see the faintest possible hint of daylight yonder. You go on deck. The east gives a pale promise of the morning, just the first soft glimmer from the gates ajar of that heavenly chamber whence the sun will, by-andby, come rejoicing. A low, doubtful, slowly-growing light, spreads encroaching on the shadows on the east. The sky beds itself on the dark gray sea, with a deep foundation of intense dark rich orange, and builds upwards with gradations of yellow, and green, and colors no one could name. Infinite changes gently succeed. Miracles of transformation, glory passing into glory. The stars fade slowly, blinking at the

increasing light, like old religions dying before the Gospel. So smooth is the water, it is certain that when the sun rises above the horizon he will stand with his feet on a sea of burnished glass. The clouds have bent a triumphal arch over the place of his coming, and one broad cloud makes a crimson canopy to the pavilion which awaits the king. Graceful, airy clouds hover like spirits that expect a spectacle; shortly they put on glorious robes, and their faces are bright, as if, like Moses, in some lofty place, they had seen God face to face: the meanest tattered cloud that lies waiting, like a beggar, at the gates of the morning, for the coming of the King from his inaccessible chambers of splendor, is dressed, while it waits, in glory beside which the apparel of princes is sordid and vile. For more than an hour, a long, long hour, you watch the elaborate unfolding pageant of preparation go on in the east. With a trembling hush of culminating wonder, you await impatiently the grand uprise of the sun. Will he ever come? You almost doubt. At last, when the ecstacy of expectation has grown intense, a thin, narrow flash of brilliant, dazzling fire shoots level along the sea, swift as lightning. Swiftly it rises and broadens till, in one moment, the dusk immensity above is kindled by it; another moment, and the far-off, gloomy west sees it; in another, the whole heaven feels it; and yet one moment more, and the wide circle of the level sea is molten silver. It is done, all done. The thing, so long preparing and approaching, bursts into completion. The day is full-blown in a moment. The few heavy piles of cloud on the horizon, look like castles in conflagration and consume away; the sun's burning gaze scorches from the rafters of the sky the light cobwebs of mist and fleece; and now the sun has the clean temple of the heavens all to himself, paved with silver, domed with azure, pillared with light.

SLEIGHING SONG.

G. W. PETTEE.

INGLE, jingle, clear the way,
'Tis the merry, merry sleigh,
As it swiftly scuds along

Hear the burst of happy song,
See the gleam of glances bright,
Flashing o'er the pathway white.
Jingle, jingle, past it flies,

Sending shafts from hooded eyes,—

Roguish archers, I'll be bound,
Little heeding who they wound;
See them, with capricious pranks,
Ploughing now the drifted banks;
Jingle. jingle, mid the glee
Who among them cares for me?
Jingle, jingle, on they go,
Capes and bonnets white with snow,