When the harvest was gathered and the orchard fruits weighing down the boughs, Charity rode to the market-town on a pretty brown jennet of her own; and as she went homeward the horns of her saddle were hung with great bundles; she had bought a white ribbon instead of a blue for the new straw hat her fingers had been braiding so busily—a muslin gown, that was white, too; a pair of pretty slippers, and a dozen other things that I have not time to enumerate—enough, that the next full moon shone upon Mistress Lawrence Jocelin. Not a village maiden that would not have envied her but for her own happiness, for all joined in the merry-making; a dozen tallow-candles were burned at once, and more than one salver of red apples was served round, with loaf-cakes and sweetmeats, and ripe broken nuts. Workmen were employed to clear away the rubbish that had once been Dame Margery’s house, and a pretty new cottage soon rose in its place; and the next summer sweet shrubbery hedged it in, and myrtles and honeysuckles curtained the windows; bees made honey from the flowers, sleek cattle fed in the pastures, and in all the neighborhood there was no home so full of comfort and plenty. The hanks of yarn which Charity had spun long ago were taken to the weaver’s and came back in rolls of damask and bright-flowered carpets; the linen was taken from the chest, and the wool blankets; and after being washed white as snow, and dried in the sun, were spread upon beds soft as down could make. When the second winter came round, the cottage was a-glow with wood-fires and tallow-candles; and in place of the starved Wolf-slayer, there lay before the hearth, in a cradle of white willows, the plumpest and fairest baby that ever Lawrence and Charity Jocelin had seen. * * * * * THE PHANTOM FIELD. BY O. I. VICTOR. The snow lies deep upon the ground, All icy is the air; The trees a winding-sheet have found By the wild wind’s care. The beast stands trembling in his shed— The sheep within his fold: Without, all life is stiff and dead— Within, all chill and cold. Why is the air so cold to-night? The owl shrinks in his nest! Why does the moon gleam out so bright? The traveler is at rest! O, keen the wind and cold the air Above the Phantom Field! Yet ghostly forms are stalking there, Armed with a sword and shield. And gathering slow in serried rank, They turn toward the west: Five thousand coffins guard each flank— Five hundred stand abreast. In battle rank, with noiseless tread, They hurry to the height, Where stand ten thousand other dead, Uncoffined for the fight. O, cold the wind and keen the air Around the Phantom Height! Yet spectre men are battling there In fierce, exultant fight.