The ancient arrowmaker is left standing lonely at the door of his wigwam, but Laughing Water and Hiawatha have gone to make a new household among the myriad homes of earth.

It matters not whether the inglenook be in wigwam or cabin, cottage or palace, if Love Dwells Within be graven upon the threshold, for "where a true wife comes, there home is always around her." She is the Domina or House Lady, and under the benediction of her gaze arise sweet order, peace, and restful charm. The "gudeman," too; "his very foot has music in't when he comes up the stair," and like the fire on the hearth he diffuses warmth and comfort and good cheer. By and by a cradle swings to and fro in the sheltered corner of the fireside; baby feet have come to stray on life's untrodden brink; baby eyes whose speech make dumb the wise smile up into the mother's as she sings her lullaby:

"The Queen has sceptre, crown, and ball,

You are my sceptre, crown, and all.
And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby.'

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The dog and the cat snooze peacefully on the hearth, the kettle hums, the kitchen clock ticks drowsily. The circle of love widens to take in all who are helping to make home beautiful-the farm boy, the milkmaid, and even the whinnying mare and friendly cow.

The poetry of the inglenook is simple, unpretentious, humble, but it has a tender charm of its own because it sings of a heaven far on this side of the stars:

"By men called home."

V

THE INGLENOOK

A New Household

O FORTUNATE, O happy day,
When a new household finds its place
Among the myriad homes of earth,
Like a new star just sprung to birth,
And rolled on its harmonious way
Into the boundless realms of space!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. From "The Hanging of the Crane."

Two Heavens

For there are two heavens, sweet,

Both made of love,-one, inconceivable

Ev'n by the other, so divine it is;
The other, far on this side of the stars,
By men called home.

LEIGH HUNT.

The

Englenook

A Song of Love

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are

cheeping,

That lures the bird home to her nest?

Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is

ing,

To cuddle and croon it to rest?

weep

What the magic that charms the glad babe in her

arms,

Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?

"Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low-
And the name of the secret is Love!
For I think it is Love,

For I feel it is Love,

For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burn

ing,

Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?
That stirs the vexed soul with an aching-a

yearning

For the brotherly hand-grip of peace?

Whence the music that fills all our being-that thrills

Around us, beneath, and above?

"Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it

goes

But the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love,

For I feel it is Love,

For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?

That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and
shadow,

Till the little lambs leap with delight? 'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, Though 'tis sung, by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear

And the name of the secret is Love!

For I think it is Love,

For I feel it is Love,

For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

LEWIS CARroll.

The

Inglenook

Mother's Song

My heart is like a fountain true
That flows and flows with love to you.
As chirps the lark unto the tree

So chirps my pretty babe to me.

And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

There's not a rose where'er I seek,

As comely as my baby's cheek.