But the day is already too far spent to admit of a longer sojourn with the Gordons. And it is solely the fault of the recorder, gentle reader, if you are not able to bid them adieu with the firm conviction that theirs is one of those “homes of America” to whom Miss Bremer referred when she said so sweetly, “wherever there is a good husband and father, a true wife and mother, dutiful children, the spirit of freedom and peace and love, and that beautiful feeling of noble minds which makes them confer happiness on their fellow-creatures according to their gifts and wishes, there also would I fain be myself, to see, to enjoy, to shed tears of delight that paradise still is to be found on this poor earth.” * * * * * THE VALLEY OF SHADOW. BY HENRY B. HIRST. WHEN daylight ends, where night begins, (May Jesus save us from our sins!) There lies a narrow, shadowy vale— (Mark me, I but repeat a tale Which once, I know not how, or when, Came mystically within my ken:) A dark, sepulchral, silent vale, Lying beyond the ultimate pale Of distant Time—beyond the din Of human tongues—by which the Djin, And Ghoul, and Afreet, hating light, Come in the noiselessness of night To chant unearthly notes and bars To the unquiet, pensive stars— To carol many a carping tune In mockery of the mourning moon— By which the jackal and the lynx Make curious queries to the Sphynx, Who never drops her stony eyes From contemplation of the skies To heed the rout, whose awful howls Alarm the fiery-visioned owls, That, at the decadence of day, Flit round and round in search of prey.