And these same peasant-immigrants in America have, without the shadow of a doubt, already written back to their relatives and friends in the old country—and very frequently—about the difficulties of the antiquated Julian calendar, and these, in turn, can disseminate common sense about the change in a way which the Government, aided by the Holy Synod and the explanations of home-staying parish priests, unaided, could never effect. When the fitting time arrives, perhaps the Russian Government will avail itself of just this argument, among others—the welfare of friends in distant America. There has never been a propitious time in Russia to make that calendar reform since the reign of Peter the Great until now. And America may fairly be said to have brought from its dark hiding place the mustard seed which has been trying so long to germinate, and imparted to it a vivifying impulse.
The Mother's Song.
By CECILIA REYNOLDS ROBERTSON.
Hush, oh, my baby, your father's a soldier,
He's off to the war, and we've nothing to eat.
And the glory is neither for you nor for me,
With the cockleburr crushing the wheat.
Little boy baby, look well on your mother;