cellar is ruddy and in good liking, sending up his warming
respirations through every pipe and register in the house; and
yet, though an artificial summer reigns everywhere, like bees we have
our swarming place,--in my library. There is my chimney-corner, and
my table permanently established on one side of the hearth; and
each of the female genus has, so to speak, pitched her own winter
tent within sight of the blaze of my camp-fire. I discerned to-day
that Jenny had surreptitiously appropriated one of the drawers of my
study-table to knitting-needles and worsted; and wicker work-baskets
and stands of various heights and sizes seem to be planted here and
there for permanence among the bookcases. The canary-bird has a
sunny window, and the plants spread out their leaves and unfold
their blossoms as if there were no ice and snow in the street, and
Rover makes a hearth-rug of himself in winking satisfaction in front
of my fire, except when Jenny is taken with a fit of discipline, when
he beats a retreat, and secretes himself under my table.

Peaceable, ah, how peaceable, home and quiet and warmth in winter! And
how, when we hear the wind whistle, we think of you, O our brave
brothers, our saviors and defenders, who for our sake have no home but
the muddy camp, the hard pillow of the barrack, the weary march, the
uncertain fare,--you, the rank and file, the thousand unnoticed ones,
who have left warm fires, dear wives, loving little children, without
even the hope of glory or fame,--without even the hope of doing
anything remarkable or perceptible for the cause you love,--resigned
only to fill the ditch or bridge the chasm over which your country
shall walk to peace and joy! Good men and true, brave unknown hearts,
we salute you, and feel that we, in our soft peace and security, are
not worthy of you! When we think of you, our simple comforts seem
luxuries all too good for us, who give so little when you give all!

But there are others to whom from our bright homes, our cheerful
firesides, we would fain say a word, if we dared.

Think of a mother receiving a letter with such a passage as this
in it! It is extracted from one we have just seen, written by a
private in the army of Sheridan, describing the death of a private.
"He fell instantly, gave a peculiar smile and look, and then
closed his eyes. We laid him down gently at the foot of a large
tree. I crossed his hands over his breast, closed his eyelids down,
but the