ere is ground glass
with tinted borders; but this is not very disturbing, especially when
the sashes are set open aslant, and the ivy and Virginia creeper
cluster just outside, in bright greens and dark, or cast their shifting
shadows on the glass, a dainty tracery of gray on silver.

And at the altar there are flowers--not florist flowers, contracted for
by the year, but neighborhood flowers. There are Mrs. Cummings's
peonies--she always has such beauties; and Mrs. Hiram Brown's
roses--nobody else has any of just that shade of yellow; and Mary Lord's
foxgloves and larkspur--what a wonder of yellow and white and blue! Each
in its season, the flowers are full of personal significance. The choir,
too, is made up of our friends. There is Hiram Brown, and Jennie Sewall,
and young Mrs. Harris, back for three weeks to visit her mother, and
little Sally Winter, a shy new recruit, very pink over her promotion.
The singing is perhaps not as finished as that of a paid quartette, but
it is full of life and sweetness, and it makes a direct human appeal
that the other often misses.

After the service people go out slowly, waiting for this friend and
that, and in the vestibule and on the steps and in the church-yard they
gather in groups. The men saunter off to the sheds to get the horses,
and the women chat while they wait. Then the teams come up, as many as
the roadway will hold, and there is the bustle of departure, the taking
of seats, the harsh grinding of wheels against the wagon body as the
driver "cramps" to turn round, then good-byes, and one after another the
teams start off, out into the open country for another week of quiet,
busy farm life.

Yes, church is distinctively a social affair, and very delightful, and
when our cows and hens and calves and other "critters" do not prevent,
we are glad to have our part in it all. When they do, we yet feel that
we have a share in it simply through seeing "the folks" go by. It is a
distinct pleasure to see our neighbors trundling along towards the
village. And then, if luck has been against us and we cannot join them,
it is a pleasure to lie in the grass and listen to the quiet. After the
last church-goers have passed, the road is deserted for two hours, until
they begin to return. The neighboring farms are quiet, the "folks" are
away, or, if some of the men are at home, they are sitting on their
doorsteps smoking.

If there is no wind, or if it is in the right quarter, we can h