Sweet is the toil of peace, Sweet is the year’s increase, To loyal men who live by Freedom’s laws; And in war’s fierce alarms God gives stout hearts and arms To freemen sworn to save a rightful cause. Fear none, trust God, maintain the right, And triumph in unbroken Union’s might. Welded in war’s fierce flame, Forged on the hearth of fame, The sacred Constitution was ordained; Tried in the fire of time, Tempered in woes sublime, An age was passed and left it yet unstained. God grant its glories still may shine, While ages fade, forgotten, in time’s slow decline! Honor the few who shared Freedom’s first fight, and dared To face war’s desperate tide at the full flood; Who fell on hard-won ground, And into Freedom’s wound Poured the sweet balsam of their brave hearts’ blood. They fell; but o’er that glorious grave Floats free the banner of the cause they died to save. In radiance heavenly fair, Floats on the peaceful air That flag that never stooped from Victory’s pride; Those stars that softly gleam, Those stripes that o’er us stream, In war’s grand agony were sanctified; A holy standard, pure and free, To light the home of peace, or blaze in victory. Father, whose mighty power Shields us through life’s short hour, To Thee we pray: Bless us and keep us free; All that is past forgive; Teach us, henceforth, to live That, through our country, we may honor Thee; And, when this mortal life shall cease, Take Thou, at last, our souls to Thine eternal peace. VII FICTION JIM’S AUNT BY FRANCES BENT DILLINGHAM “I wish you could take him in,” the minister said, almost entreatingly. “He isn’t a bad boy, you know; his family is quite respectable; but when his aunt said she couldn’t afford to take him into the country with her children, it seemed too bad for him to stay in the city.” “Oh, yes, of course,” Miss Lucinda assented hastily. “If only he wasn’t a boy!” The minister sighed. “I want you to do what you think best.” It was Miss Lucinda’s turn to sigh now—a long-drawn breath of surrender. “Well, I’ll take him,” she said. The minister rose to go. “It’s very kind of you, Miss Tarbox; be sure I appreciate your self-sacrifice;” and then he added, in a hesitating sort of way, “You are always full of good works.” The color flamed up in Miss Lucinda’s face. “Oh!” she exclaimed, lifting her proud head still higher, “I don’t do anything!” and the minister felt the usual sense of defeat he experienced in Miss Tarbox’s presence. He was quite dejected as he went down the garden walk. “So excellent a woman,” he murmured to himself, and he mournfully contrasted her uncompromising manner with the flattering air of other single ladies of his parish as he glanced back furtively toward her parlor window.