THE sultry summer day was past, and the cool air of evening was murmuring among the green leaves, and bending the slender stalks of the flowers, as it swept onward to fan the heated brow of the husbandman, who had toiled throughout the long day beneath the glowing sky. But to none among the band of homewardbound laborers did the evening breeze seem more refreshing than to three, whose baskets of tools borne over their shoulders denoted them carpenters. They had, in truth, passed the whole of the day on the top of a lofty house, preparing it for slates, and had suffered not a little from the intense heat; and now, with wearied frames, they were pursuing their way home. At the entrance of the village where they lived, Draper, Gale, and Burt separated, each to seek his own dwelling.

There was not a neater or cleaner abode in the village than that awaiting the reception of Draper. Not a speck of dust dimmed the brilliance of the windows, around which fluttered curtains as white as snow; every article of furniture was polished till it shone like a mirror; fresh flowers breathed forth their fragrance from the chimneypiece, a spotless cloth covered the little suppertable, and Mrs. Draper and his children were as neat as it was possible to be.

Far different the scene which awaited Gale; his house was in disorder, his children untidy, and his wife absent. The last-named evil, however, was soon remedied, for one of the children, despatched in quest of his mother, soon returned with her.

"You here already, Tom" she exclaimed, rushing in breathlessly, in a gown that had cer tainly seen quite a week's hard service since it had last been taken into wear, “I had no thought it was so late. But supper will soon be ready. Light the fire, there's a good fellow, while I cut a rasher and wash the lettuce; and we'll soon have supper."

"I am so tired, Mary, that I would rather do without supper than light the fire," said Gale, throwing himself upon a seat.

"Are you? Well, then, don't; I'll soon get it ready myself," said the wife, beginning to bustle

about; in the course of which she broke more than one article of crockery, put for the time, in some unsuitable place.

"Where were you, Mary?" inquired Gale, after a pause.

"I had just stepped out to see how Mrs. Blain's baby was, poor little dear."

Mother has been gone ever since tea," said the eldest child, a boy of some six years old.

"You abominable little story-teller, how can you say so I was gone no time at all!" exclaimed the mother, irritated into boxing the speaker's ears for his interference.

The child ran away crying, and Mrs. Gale went on preparing her husband's supper; more industriously than rapidly, since she had to clean most of the articles she required, ere she could use them. Then, by that time, the children became cross and peevish, because they were sleepy; and when the supper was at length ready, she had to go up stairs and put them to bed; then returning, swallowed her own meal hastily, and, putting aside the dirty plates, declared she must now go and wash.

"Wash!" exclaimed her husband, in astonish

ment.

"I thought you were to have washed the day before yesterday?"

Well, so I meant ; but I was interrupted," she replied. "Mrs. Blain came in that day, and Mrs. Strong yesterday; and to-day I had not time. And now I must wash, for neither the children nor you have a clean thing to put on; and, for that matter, neither have I."

"So it would appear," said Gale, glancing at the dark tint of her naturally light gown.

"So it would appear, indeed!" she cried, angrily. "I suppose you expect to see me as clean and neat, and everything as well done, as if I were a lady and kept a couple of servants ?"

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But the affectionate tone of the last words exercised no softening influence on the roused spirit of the indignant wife; and a quarrel ensued, which ended, as it had often done before, in Gale taking his hat, and finding at the public house the comfort he could not find in his own.

Meanwhile, Draper passed through his trim little front garden, entered his pretty cottagehome, and setting down his basket, seated him self wearily by the window.

"Oh, Draper, I am sure you never wiped your shoes when you came in!" was his wife's salutation, as she entered the room.

Well, my dear, and if I did not, there could be no mud on them, this weather," he replied.

"No, but I'll be bound there was plenty of dust on them," she retorted, crossly; "and you know how I hate dust. And here-I declare if here is not your dirty basket set down on the clean waxcloth. Let me slave ever so much, I can't keep the house clean while you are so careless; and you know it is the pride of my life to have a clean house."

"I was very tired, Susan, or I would not have done it," said her husband, apologetically.

"And do you think I am never tired,” she demanded; "working about all day as I do, and then sitting down to make and mend for the children-for I take a pride in seeing my children neat and clean."

"You are, indeed, a most industrious wife, Susan," said her husband, in all sincerity; yet he sighed, for his home, though it was so pleasant| to look at, was very uncomfortable.

"I am glad you admit that," she said, shortly. "But come, now, supper is ready." And they accordingly sat down to the neatly-arranged meal that was awaiting them. But all its comfort was marred by the constant faults Mrs. Draper found with all that her husband and children did. They were, at almost every movement, offending against her law of order; for Mrs. Draper's love of cleanliness and neatness was not satisfied by daily and almost hourly cleanings; the slightest infringement of the order that was so dear to her, irritated her beyond measure; and, as it may be supposed, those infringements with a husband and children, were neither few nor far between, anger was rarely long absent from their dwelling.

Mrs. Draper was a conscientious and an industrious woman, and she esteemed it her duty to work hard for her husband and children. That duty she performed to the uttermost; and, if need were, she would have begged for them, or starved for them. But she perceived not how her spirit of house-worship interfered with her duties as a

wife and mother. The latter demanded her house should be a home, the former that it should be an idol; and she bowed unresistingly down before the image she had herself set up, without once suspecting that the magic word "Home." was, in her keeping, but an empty sound. Her children were dull and sullen, because they were always in disgrace; for the playfulness natural to their age was commonly treated as a fault, from its leading them to transgress the strict rules set up for their conduct and forget the respect due to chairs and stools which were never to be touched or moved, and floors and windows which must not be trod or breathed upon. And her husband, when his many hours of labor were over, and he felt he had fairly earned a happy and peaceful evening-was continually offending against the same laws; therefore, the matter frequently ended by his betaking himself to the public house, where he was an object of consideration, which he never was at home.

And thus, though Mrs. Draper was in general estimation (and especially in her own) an incomparably better wife than Mrs. Gale, they both by very different means, accomplished the same end, of driving from their houses domesticated husbands, and inducing them to seek a substitute within the pernicious precincts of a public house, where they spent money, the loss of which, was seriously felt in their own families; and, what their wives might yet more bitterly regret in time to come, lost their habits of sobriety and steadiness, and listened to opinions and principles calculated to render them less respectable members of society, and to undermine the little influence their wives had left themselves.

Burt, too, had gained his home-a neat little cottage like those of his fellow-workmen. As he stood for a moment in the narrow garden, admiring the simple flowers that bloomed in little beds-as brightly, aye, and as sweetly, too, as prouder blossoms around palace-homes-the door burst open, and two neatly-clad children rushed joyously out to meet him. He raised the youngest in his arms, and rendered the other proud and happy by allowing him to drag in the basket of tools. Within, all was neat and clean, and as orderly as the gambols of the children would permit; and the wife, who advanced to meet him, was as neat and housewife-like a person as the eye could wish to rest upon.

I should think you needed it after so hot a day."

"Oh, that was nothing to make a fuss about!" he replied, lightly, though he had felt it a good deal, and was now excessively tired. But he knew Fanny too well appreciated the exertions he made to surround her with the little homecomforts she possessed, to render it needful to excite her sympathy by enlarging on any extra disagreeables that might at times occur.

At length, the comfortable though frugal meal was ended, and the children put to bed; and then the little wife came gaily down stairs. Burt was weary, and had placed his feet on a chair, but no frown darkened Fanny's brow at the sight; on the contrary, she advanced good-humoredly to his side, and inquired whether she should go on with the book she had been reading the previous evening, or if he would rather chat while she worked. But the pleasure of listening to an interesting book was far greater to the weary man than that of hearing the village gossip; and Fanny read on uninterruptedly till bed-time.

Time passed on; and with it Mrs. Gale grew more slatternly and fond of gossip, Mrs. Draper, a more devoted house-slave, and their husbands, as a necessary consequence, grew more attached to beer and ale-house company; while Fanny Burt pursued the even tenor of her way, contented, neat, cheerful, and good-tempered, her house a haven of peace and happiness, to which her husband ever returned with pleasure, and herself most happy in making him so.

One day Fanny was busily engaged in weeding her little garden, and tying up the flowers, when Mrs. Gale passed by; and seeing her, paused to "chat a bit."

"You have not seen the new clock Burt bought me on my birth-day," said Fanny, after some conversation, during which she had finished her gardening, and Mrs. Gale had leaned over the little paling.

"No, I've not; but as I have a minute to spare, I'll come in now;" and Mrs. Gale accordingly came in, leaving the gate open for the free ingress of the pigs and fowls. Fanny quietly closed it ere she followed her visitor into the cottage.

“Upon my word, it is a very pretty clock-I wish I could afford such an one !" said Mrs. Gale. "And how nice you have everything about you," she continued, looking round on the neatly-furnished little room; I wish I could have everything as comfortable." "I am sure I do not see why you should not," said Fanny; "your husband has the same wages as mine, and our families are of the same size." "Ah! but your husband does not spend so

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much of his money at the public house as mine does," replied Mrs. Gale.

"No, he never enters it."

"And yet, when we were both married," resumed Mrs. Gale, “people said I made the best match of the two, because Gale was a steadier young man than Burt. I can't think how you manage to keep him at home."

By making it neat, and clean, and comfortable," said Fanny, who was quite aware of the style of her companion's housekeeping: “by letting him find his supper waiting for him, and his wife and children ready to welcome him and keep him company."

Mrs. Gale stood for a moment, silent and selfconvicted. She felt that she could not say the same; that none of these home-luxuries awaited her husband. She knew that he usually found a discorded house and children, an unready supper, and oftentimes an absent wife. Latterly, her husband's conduct had caused her much anxiety, and the newly-awakened thought that her own had been the cause of it, cost her a bitter pang. She said little to Mrs. Burt; but, bidding her soon “good day," sped home, resolving as she went that if her husband's reformation depended on hers, it would be set about without delay.

That evening at the usual hour, the three carpenters returned to their homes; Burt jesting on his way, for his heart was light as he thought of the glad faces awaiting him-the others dull and weary, for they were exhausted by their day's work, and had no bright home-thoughts to cheer them.

soon.

At length Gale parted with his companions and sauntered slowly homeward, knowing that, however late he might be, he usually arrived too At last he reached his home, but stood still in astonishment at the scene before him, almost doubting whether he had not entered the wrong door. The room was swept and dusted, and everything put in its place; the supper was ready and the children neat. But the next moment his wife entered, and then he knew his home again; for her own dress was a matter that amid all her reformations, Mrs. Gale had quite overlooked. But those she had effected sufficed for the time; for, pleased with the unwonted comfort, her husband remained contented at home.

A proud and happy woman that night was Mrs. Gale; she looked upon the victory over her husband's erratic habits as already gained, and that it needed but her own pursuance of her new course to secure its continuance. Great, then, was he disappointment when the following evening saw

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Gale desert his altered home for the public-house. She had never calculated on the influence of habit; and in the bitterness of her heart, looked on the scheme-in the hope of whose success she had worked all day so cheerfully-as an utter failure.

The next morning, as soon as her children were despatched to school, Mrs. Gale took her way to Mrs. Burt's cottage, to communicate to her the hopes and fears of the last two days.

But the ever-hopeful Fanny bade her again take heart, and continue on the rightful course she had entered, without fear but that in the end her object would be achieved.

"You must not be down-hearted," she said, “because your husband goes to the public house once-no, nor twenty times. We all know and feel how difficult it is to renounce any habit, and all you must hope for is to break him of it gradually. Only go on in the way you have begun," continued Fanny, cheerfully, “and I do not doubt that, before long, your husband will sit at home of an evening as happy and contented as mine does."

"Do you really think so?" said her visitor, wiping away her tears.

"To be sure I do," said Fanny, gaily. "And now, in the meantime, I'll tell you what I'll do; I know you are a good reader-I'll lend you a book that has interested Burt and me greatly; read a little of it to Mr. Gale of an evening, and trust me, if, before the book is ended, you do not see the good effects of it; and when it is ended you shall have another."

It needs not to detail the thanks of Mrs. Gale for her neighbor's encouraging words, nor the length to which her gossiping propensities would have extended them, had not Fanny gently hinted that, if either of them intended to maintain the character of good housewives, it would not do for them to spend the morning thus. Her good resolves thus brought to mind, Mrs. Gale hastily de parted. Fanny looked after her for a moment, and the sight recalled something of importance she had omitted to mention. She called after her instantly, and then ran down the street.

"Whatever you do, Mrs. Gale, do not forget to put on a clean gown and cap before evening."

Then, speeding back, she went to work with redoubled diligence, to repair the loss of time her visitor had occasioned.

Mrs. Gale took both pieces of Fanny's adviceshe put on the clean gown, and she read the book, and they both answered excellently; though it may be doubted, interesting to Gale as was the latter, whether it would have been so efficacious without the former; for personal neaness has a

Meanwhile, months came and went, and brought no spell upon their wings for Draper's happiness; the spirit of cleanliness, perverted into a demon, still reigned paramount over his dwelling; still did he go abroad as much as might be to escape its iron rule; and still did the demon's prime minister look upon herself as a meritorious and ill-used woman; and, in the irritation of mind caused by her husband's absence, and the loss of money it entailed, bear more hardly than ever on her children's little faults against neatness and order.

One evening there had been the usual display of great anger for little sins, that, beneath most roofs, had been deemed none at all, when Draper, weary of the share that fell upon himself, pushed back his chair, and, rising, turned to leave the house.

"And now," observed Mrs. Draper, drily, “I suppose, because you are not allowed to make everything in a mess without my making any observation on the subject, you are going to the public-house, to spend there the money I work so hard to save ?"

“No,” replied he, quietly," I am only going down to Gale's." And, in truth, his steps had often turned thither of late, as Gale's stay-at-home habits were growing stronger; for Draper missed his old companion in their former haunts; and besides, was not sorry to pass a comfortable evening elsewhere than in a public-house.

"To Gale's!" repeated his wife, contemptuously. "Truly, you have a good taste, to choose a dirty house like that; I am no longer surprised that my particularity is disagreeable to you."

Mrs. Gale does not keep a dirty house now; it is as neat and clean as any one need wish to see." replied Draper; " and, what is more, though it is so, she does not make a god of it, and sacrifice her husband and children to it, but lets them live in it in peace, and quietness, and good temper."

Peace, and quietness, and good temper-how those words echoed in Mrs. Draper's ears long after her husband had left the house! They would not leave her, but recurred again and again to her thoughts. We have before said that Mrs.

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Draper was a conscientious woman, and unfeignedly anxious to do her duty by her husband and children; and the thought of her husband's last words suggested to her, that to her overstrained love of order she had sacrificed their comfort, and by her want of peace, quietness, and good temper, had driven her husband from his home, was a serious shock to all the feelings of self approbation in which she had, though in vain, endeavored to find happiness. Her faults were very different from those of Gale's once untidy wife. Mrs. Gale's were so prominent that they were easily rendered obvious, even to her own eyes, and could bear no other aspect than their own repulsive form; but Mrs. Draper had long believed her faults to be virtues; she had regarded herself as a pattern wife, and so arduously fulfilled her duties, as far as she discerned them, that it was indeed difficult to believe she could have made so serious a mistake.

But peace, quietness, and good temper, conscience whispered to her, were not to be found in her dwelling. There was an error somewhereshe had been always used to ascribe it wholly to her husband, but could it be possible that it existed as much, perhaps more, in herself?

Mrs. Draper took council with none save her own beart and her own conscience: but in the end, they guided her aright; though painful, in

deed, was the effort required to follow their dic tates, and much it cost her to sacrifice, even in part, the habits of over particularity which had grown upon her until they almost seemed a portion of herself. But hard though it was to pass over in silence many things which fretted and grieved the spirit of house worship she had so long obeyed, she was well repaid when her husband drew his chair to the fire of an evening, instead of seeking comfort and society elsewhere. It was true that he sometimes put his foot on the brightly-polished fender, and at first it required an effort to restrain the complaint which sprang to her lips. But she found that the morning's rubbing made it just as bright as though no foot had rested on it, and she felt her heart all the lighter for the knowledge.

Yet, sincere as was Mrs. Draper's desire of making her house comfortable, it was a thing of time to gain the needful conquest over herself; nor was Draper to be won at once to a change of habits. But time and good intentions on both sides, brought back the peace and happiness which seemed to have deserted their dwelling; and at length the faces within it grew as bright as the tables which were ready to mirror them, for the neatest cottage in the village became one of its most cheerful and best-loved homes.

We were boys and girls together

In that happy, happy time

When the spirit's light shone brightest,
And the heart was in its prime ;
Ere the morning light was clouded,
That beamed upon our youth,
Ere the chill of worldly knowledge
Had blighted childhood's truth.

We were boys and girls together,

When the step was firm and light,
When the voice was clear and ringing,
And the laughing eyes were bright;
Then our love sought no concealment,
And our bosoms knew no art,
Then the sunshine of our childhood
Cast no shadow on the heart.

We are boys and girls no longer,
But the earnest cares of life
Have left the traces on us
Of the sorrow and the strife;

The flowers we plucked have wither'd,
The dimpled smiles have fled,
And the budding hopes we cherished
Have vanished with the dead.

But as the proud stream shadows
The rays that lightly glanced
Upon the tiny streamlet

That in their gleaming danced;
So the soul of earnest manhood
Retains the features mild,
That shed a loving beauty
On the spirit of the child.

Other young ones are around us,
Other voices ringing sweet,
We hear their joyous laughter,
And the echo of their feet;
Oh, childhood never dieth,

And beauty ne'er will wane:
In the fair ones that we gaze on,
We are boys and girls again.