"But God does not dwell in temples made by human hands. He is clothed with light. Heaven is His throne and the earth is His footstool." That is the text of the sermon which the worthy minister, Rosenkrantz, to-day delivers to his congregation, gathered around him in a wide circle under the bright sky and on the green earth. In words that fly on eagle's wings over the assembly he praises the great, good God, on whom they, in their need, had called, and who, out in the wild woods and on the lonely prairie, had delivered them from danger. He calls to remembrance those who had fallen during the war, and says that not in vain did they shed their precious blood for house and home in which man must live, that in the circle of his own family, at his own hearth, he may show the virtues of love, of helpfulness and patience, and live according to the image of Him who made him. He declares that those who survive are called and chosen, after the fearful labor of the war, to the valuable works of peace, and that all hatred and quarreling and envy and strife must henceforth be banished from the congregation, otherwise the dead would rise and complain and ask: "Why did we die?" More than once the voice of the minister trembled with deep feeling. He had gone through it all himself. Every word came from the bottom of his heart and so it reached the heart. There was scarcely one of the assembled hundreds whose eyes remained free from tears; and when the benediction was pronounced, that the Lord who had now so evidently let the light of His countenance fall on them and had given them peace, might also further bless and preserve them and give them peace, Amen! the word touched every heart, and hundreds of voices responded: "Amen!" "Amen!" as the wind roars through the tops of the trees of the forest. Then the roaring grew louder and mightier, as it spread in sacred accord over the sunny fields in the hymn. "Now let us all thank God." Then they retired stiller than they came. But the festival of peace should also be one of joy, and there were with the old far too many who were young to keep in their joy very long. At first a few lively words were jokingly interchanged. Then a lusty fellow had a funny conceit which, in that beautiful, bright sunshine, he could not possibly keep to himself. The old smiled. The young men laughed. The girls giggled. The laughter and the joyfulness were so inspiring and communicative that the guns went off as if of themselves, and an hour later one who did not know better might have thought that Herkimer's house, which the French had not ventured to attack in the frightful years of '57 and '58, was being stormed on the festival of peace by German young men.