And so should we be, but that here comes a thunder storm, fit conclusion for an intense day, and very like the sudden and terrific blowings up which terminate the most ferocious kind of friendships.  Thick clouds, shaped like piles of cannon balls, have slowly peered up from behind the horizon, and rolled themselves hither and thither, spreading and gathering as they went.  Now and then a thunder-whisper is heard, so faint, that if we were conversing, we should not notice it; and an occasional flash of lightning seems, in the sun’s glare, like the waving of a curtain by the fitful breeze that begins to touch the pool here and there.  The cloud masses gather fresh and fresh accession as they move on, like revolutionary armies marching up to battle.  Looking overhead, there seems a field-day in heaven; great bodies of artillery in motion, forming themselves into solid phalanx, and giving more and more dreadful notes of preparation.  Volleys tell when divisions join, and the light that announces them is as if the adamantine arch were riven, disclosing dread splendors unspeakable Most grand, most beautiful storm!  New music—­that of the delicious rain, and in such abundance that it washes away the very memory of the parched and burning day.  No wild commotion, no terror!  Sublime order and an awe which is like peace.  One more proof of the unfailing, tender love of our heavenly Father.

NO SONGS IN WINTER.

BY T. B. ALDRICH.

I

    The robin and the oriole,
      The linnet and the wren—­
    When shall I see their fairyships,
      And hear their songs again?

II.

    The wind among the poplar trees,
      At midnight, makes its moan;
    The slim red cardinal flowers are dead,
      And all sweet things are flown!

III.

    A great white face looks down from heaven,
      The great white face of Snow;
    I cannot sing or morn or even,
      The demon haunts me so!

IV.

    It strikes me dumb, it freezes me,
      I sing a broken strain—­
    Wait till the robins and the wrens
      And the linnets come again!

THE BENI-ISRAEL.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

    Crammed—­lobbies, galleries, boxes, floor;
    Heads piled on heads at every door. 
    The actors were a painted group,
    Of statue shapes, a “model” troupe,
    With figures not severely Greek,
    And drapery more or less antique;
    The play, if one might call it so,
    A Hebrew tale, in silent show.