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 Published for the Benefit of the Reformed Church at 
 Irvington. N. J., Christmas. 1S71. 
 
 \ 
 
iJoiTOf^lAL. 
 
 THERE is only a word to say. The Editor, anxious 
 to help as best she might the little Church at 
 Irvington with which she is connected, has appealed to 
 good friends who have written for " The Belfry " the 
 poems and stories which make this little book. She 
 need not say that they are fresh, original and worthy of 
 higher place. She must say that they have been so 
 generously and cordially given that it has seemed almost 
 wrong to accept the gift from authors so distinguished, 
 and for whose literary wares the market is so open. She 
 sends " The Belfry" forth with the hope and faith that 
 it may help in the advocacy of the Church of Geneva, 
 of the Netherlands, of the Hugenots, of the Puritans, of 
 what we now, as anciently, call the " Reformed Church" 
 — always and everywhere, and by whatever name, the 
 representative of the indissoluble marriage of religion and 
 civil liberty. 
 
 M. T. H. 
 Irvington, N. J., December 25, 1871. 
 
 J 
 
plVlDED. 
 
 THE half-world's width divides us ; where she sits 
 Noonday has hroadened o'er the praried West ; 
 For me, beneath an alien sky, unblest ; 
 The day dies and the bird of evening flits. 
 Nor do I dream that in her happier breast 
 Stirs thought of me. Untroubled beams the star, 
 And recks not of the drifting mariner's quest, 
 Wh(j. for dear life, may seek it on mid-sea. 
 The half world's width divides us, yet, from far— 
 And though I know that nearer may not be 
 In all the years— yet, O Beloved ! to thee 
 Goes out my heart, and, past the crimsoi- bar 
 Of Sunset, westward yearns away, away. 
 And dieth tcnvard thee with the dying day. 
 
 (hriiuiny. 1867. David GrAY. 
 
T^LL IN A LiFE-TIfvlE. 
 
 THOU slialt have sun and shower from heaven above, 
 Thou shalt have llower and thorn from earth below, 
 Thine shall be foe to hate and friend to love, 
 
 Pleasures that others gain, the ills they know,— 
 • And all in a life time. 
 
 I Hast thou a golden day, a starlit night, 
 
 Mirth, and music, and love without alloy ? 
 Leave no drop undrunken of thy delight : 
 Sorrow and shadow follow on thy Joy. 
 'Tis all in a life time. 
 
 What if the battle end and thou hast lost ? 
 ; Others have lost the battles thou hast won ; 
 
 ■ Haste thee, bind thv wounds, nor ct^untthe cost : 
 
 >. Over the lield will rist: to morrow's sun. 
 
 'Tis all in a life time. 
 
 Laugh at the braggart sneer, the (jpen scorn. — 
 'Ware of the secret stab, the slanderous lie : 
 
 For seventy years of turmoil thou wast born, 
 Bitter and sweet are thine till these go by. 
 "Tis all in a life-time. 
 
 Reckon tliy \<\vage well, and spread the sail,— 
 
 Wind and calm and current shall warp thy way ; 
 Compass shall set thee false, and chart shall fail ; 
 \ Even the waves will use thee for their play, 
 
 ^v,^ 'Tis all in a lifetime. 
 
 ) Thousands of years agone were chance and change, 
 
 \ Thousands o\ ages hence the same shall be ; 
 
 Naught of thy joy and grief is new or strange : 
 Gather apace" the good that falls to the ! 
 'Tis Lill in a life-time. 
 
 Edmund C. Stedman. 
 
¥flTH A f R03S op ^/iLD lfAfAOF{TEhLE^. 
 
 WHEN Christ cried— It is done, 
 The face of a little red flower, 
 Looking up to the Suffering One, 
 Turned pale with true love's pain 
 And never shone red again. 
 In memory of that hour, 
 
 Which holdeth the secret of bliss 
 And the subtler secret of sorrow — 
 That shall come to each, to-morrow, 
 Sweet friend I send you this. 
 
 R. W. Gilder. 
 
]-(0jVlEWy\F(D. 
 
 A FAR-OFF shore 
 And a beating tide, 
 With a rustling breeze 
 Away we ride,— ^ 
 
 Sing for the sea, 
 Sing, sing cheerily. 
 
 Swift our painted bow- 
 Cuts the hissing foam. 
 Swift fly the eddies behind. 
 Swift we rush towards home, 
 
 Sing for the sea, 
 
 Sing, sing cheerily. 
 
 On the white beach stands 
 My love with her flowing hair. 
 She waves her small hands 
 For love, not despair ; 
 
 Sing for the sea. 
 
 Sing, sing cheerily. 
 
 O ! blow heavy breeze, 
 Bend our mast, load our- sail. 
 Rush and dash onward fast. 
 And roll to the gale ; — 
 
 Sing for the sea. 
 
 Sing, sing merrily. 
 
 WlI.l.IAM Ellf.rv Ch.wxixo 
 
]4oW IT ]4y\PPENED. 
 
 YOU wonder how it happened, Tom ? Because a ; 
 
 little woman was once divinelj^ good. ^ 
 
 Tr)^ that meerschaum, Tom — a Senorita of Para gave it [ 
 
 that blush rose color, as I happen to know. Well, you j 
 
 see last summer about twenty of us choice spirits "camp- y 
 
 ed out" on Chautauqua Lake, as lovely a sheet of water 
 as you ever trolled in, with as lovely points along its I 
 
 wooded shores as ever you tacked for. And by the way, \ 
 
 never prate of the charms of nature, Tom, until you have f 
 
 lived cheek by jowl with her — nothing between you and J 
 
 the tree-tops by day and a bit of canvas by night ; then, | 
 
 in a quiet way, woods and waters and all her secrets of I 
 
 sound, scent and color come to be part of the furniture f 
 
 of your soul. 
 
 We were living in that quiet waj', tishing and sailing by 
 day and telling stories around our crackling camp-fire at 
 night. Our tents were in three great divisions, one the 
 ladies' sleeping room — the other end being our night 
 quarters, and between them the general store-room where 
 their trunks and our traps were stored. Two weeks of ? 
 
 cloudless weather had prepared a welcome for the thun- ■ 
 
 der-storm that broke over our devoted tents one after- 
 noon. How it poured through the leaves till every tree 
 seemed a water-spout, and how when night fell the blind- 
 ing flashes rolled our tents up like a scroll ! Unfortu- 
 nately, our wing was not water proof, while the other [ 
 rooms proved perfectly sea-worth)^ So it was arranged l 
 — wretched man that I was ! — that we should use the 
 store-room for that night. Mrs. Darling and half-a-dozen 
 
 I 
 
dear j^irls turned in with a beautiful zeal, and soon had 
 our blankets spread on the floor. Good-nights over, a 
 subdued laughing and talking going on on both sides the 
 dividing canvas, I, having robed myself in my red flannel 
 "extinguisher"— a nondescript kind of bag that swallow- 
 ed me up neck and heels— and having completed the 
 l general imbecility of my appearance by knotting a hand- 
 
 ; kerchief at the four corners as a night-cap, to keep off 
 
 ^ dampne^^s— sat balancing myself on a trunk. Somebody 
 
 ■ got off an infernal joke. I went into convulsions. It 
 
 soothes my spirit even at this lapse of time to say that I 
 afterwards gave him convulsions. The trunk, it seems, 
 ;; : was raised on two round sticks to secure it from possible 
 
 I I dampness just where the floor, being higher than that of 
 
 I the ladies' room, sloped down to meet it. The trunk gave 
 
 i . a lurch — phew, how my flesh creeps !— the canvas was 
 
 I loose and I was shot clean through it from the sliding 
 
 I ' trunk into that room. Great heavens ! think of the 
 
 [i situation ! It was like a sea burial, only it was a living 
 
 i \ death, — talk of a " dem'd. wet, uncomforfable body" — I 
 
 I I should infinitely rather have had a comfortable wet grave 
 
 p in the Atlantic. I lay there like a gigantic lobster, my 
 
 Si head between my knees, not daring to shift my position 
 
 ':■ , lest I should be recognised, until an angel in a soft blue 
 
 ^ wrapper, her golden hair floating — a fairer wrapper still — 
 
 ijj below her waist, tore a sheet from one of the beds and 
 
 flung it over me. I think she felt my glance of death- 
 less gratitude, though I am conscious that the linen horns 
 that apparently sprouted from mj^ eyebrows must have 
 marred the effect. I crawled back with dignity in my 
 sheet which I instantly filled with bananas, oranges and 
 every luxury within reach, — they do say that several 
 Havanas were found in it, — and pushed it through. The 
 boys all swore eternal secrecy. 
 
Well, the rain fell all next day, but more and more I h 
 
 gentl}^ until at night-fall it resolved itself with the clouds I I 
 
 into a heav}^ fog. This in turn, grew lighter and thinner ■ | 
 
 as night set in. About nine o'clock I left the camp fire ■ I 
 
 and strolled alone to the pier. What a night was that ! i \ 
 
 The wonder, the beauty of it hushes me even now. The i I 
 
 moon shone large and soft through the mist— not a breath ;' 
 
 stirred the leaves or the shining water — distance was no \ j] 
 
 more, the farthest shores drew near— all nature was in a | 
 
 trance — the water dreamed of its wooded banks, and so • | 
 
 like the dream and its substance you could scarcely sepa- i | 
 
 rate them. Slowly, not suddenly, it grew upon my con- ' 1 
 
 sciousness that other eyes Avere seeing what I saw, and so i | 
 
 it seemed quite natural to find the golden head that had j- 
 haunted my thoughts the last twenty four hours within 
 the shadow of one of the spiles of the old pier. It seemed 
 wholly natural to sit down beside her without apology. 
 O, if I could make 3^ou see that picture, Tom ! The mist 
 
 was penetrated by the moonlight till it was no longer mist, j; 
 
 but only a less ethereal light— a light to be drunk in by 1 
 the eyes, a light to be felt like the blessed touch of lost 
 fingers. Take the loveliest face that ever blessed your 
 dream by day or night, Tom,— let it be withdrawn from 
 you by a little space— the holy space that death makes 
 between you and a fair face only it must have none of 
 the coldness of death, rather life with a transient spell 
 
 upon it,— a glory of fair hair about it, soft shadows steal; ; i 
 
 ing from the shut lids to soften, not obscure, its divine \ | 
 
 beauty ; and you may guess at what the moon was to us | 
 
 that night as it lay in the dark heavens, its silver edge i I 
 
 dissolved in the luminous mist. ! | 
 
 And so, side by side, wrapped in the luminous shadow i I 
 
 — it happened. '. | 
 
 Annie R. Annin. i I 
 
 z^ 
 
^INQIHQ IN THE ^NOW. 
 
 I RAISED my head from mj^ folded arms and looked 
 around the rooms which held all my worldly goods. 
 They were three in number — bed-room, kitchen and par- 
 lor. We ate and sat in the latter, and the tea-table was 
 in the middle of the floor, readj^ for the evening meal. 
 The china, cut-glass and silver upon it — even the damask 
 cloth, made the other furniture the more shabby by con- 
 trast. A cheap carpet — and such an one has an offensive 
 style peculiar to itself, of proclaiming its real value, -a 
 chintz-covered lounge, and two arm-chairs to match ; 
 quite at the back of the room, the piano which was my 
 only brother's wedding-present to me, — these, with half- 
 a-dozen light, cane-seated chairs furnished the twelve- 
 by-twelve apartment. My mother's likeness was over 
 the mantel ; three or four engravings hung against the 
 tawdry paper of the walls ; there were white Holland 
 blinds at the windows — straight and ghastly in the twilight 
 creeping down into the narrow street. This was what I 
 called " home !" I, whose love of the beautiful had been 
 a passion from ni}^ babyhood ; whose first step had been 
 upon a velvet carpet ; with whom purple and fine linen 
 were daily wear ; sweet sounds and fair sights and dainty 
 diet so much a matter of course that when poverty came 
 into our abode— a giant armed, I laughed to scorn his 
 fierce visage, played with his weapons as an ignorant 
 child might toy with a poisoned dagger. Blessed ignor- 
 ance it was which had saved my poor old Ned from what 
 he dreaded as the bitterest ingredient in the cup so 
 forcibly and suddenly given him to drink — the sight of 
 my dismay, the hearing of my wails over departed pros- 
 
perity. I was bright and hopeful in those first dark days 
 
 — " his angel of cheer," he said. ). 
 
 He never called me that now. How could he, when ' 
 
 with experience of poverty's real ills, — the shutting out 
 of the warm, beautiful summer world in which I had dis- 
 ported myself for twenty-three years -the hard, unro- 
 mantic drudgery of every-day life. — horror and loathing, 
 then despair had laid hold upon my soul ? I never re- i 
 
 proached my husband with the ruin that had swallowed I | 
 
 up my sunshine. In my most rebellious moments I ac- ? 
 
 knowledged that he was not to blame, but the villainy of ■ 
 
 others, yet ni}^ evil case was none the easier to bear on 
 this account. He had given up his law-office and the 
 small practice he had gained as a young lawyer whose 'i 
 
 ample means made him indifferent to patronage, and was ; 
 
 now earning our living— just that and nothing more, by | 
 
 hard work in the office of a daily newspaper, — toiling |i 
 
 with pen and scissors as might any man who had been I 
 
 " brought up" to the printer's trade ! I think this hurt | 
 
 me worst of all. It was so like harnessing Pegasus to a I 
 
 street dray, or setting blind Samson to grind in the Philis- I 
 
 tine mill. ! | 
 
 " It is the duty nearest my hand, Pet," he said in | 
 
 answer to my outbreak of tearful remonstrance. " I must •' 
 
 grasp the first handle turned toward me, let it be rough 
 or smooth." ,, 
 
 No other had yet been offered him, and we had lived ' j, 
 
 three- years in these three rooms, upon the second "flat" t' 
 
 of a plain frame house in an unfashionable street. I had I 
 
 dropped out of society. Fine dresses, a smiling face and i 
 
 a merry tongue, spacious rooms and money with which 
 to reciprocate hospitality were essentials in social inter- 
 course. Having none of these, I was as a dead woman 
 out of mind to my former friends, and I made no new 
 
ones. Pe()plc become bores when they can talk of 
 nothinjif but their own miseries, and what other topics 
 had I at my command ? I detested the household details 
 which were the staple of conversation with my present 
 neighbors. I baked, boiled, roasted and seasoned with 
 the precision of an automaton. They did the same con- 
 amwe, never having cared for anything better. I had — 
 yet I had not opened the piano in six months, nor read a 
 new book in the same time. I was always too weary, or 
 too wretched. Life was such a hard pull and the up-hill 
 road so rough and miry. That very day — the 24th of De- 
 cember — Ned and I had almost quarrelled about a couple 
 of tickets which had fallen to his lot in the Editor's office 
 — orders of admittance to a lecture advertised for Christ- 
 mas Eve, as the most brilliant of a popular course. 
 
 "Just the thing you would enjoy !" he said, coaxingly. 
 
 " Just the thing I used to like, you mean !" I retorted, 
 " I have forgotten how to enjoy anything. And the hat 
 I have been retrimming to day would be disgraceful 
 beside the fine feathers I should see there. But I wish 
 you would go, Ned ! Never mind me !"' 
 
 " As if I minded an5rthing else !" returned he, with un- 
 usual sharpness. " You know I would coin my heart's 
 blood into gold, if money could buy you happiness !" 
 
 The implied doubt nettled me. 
 
 " There is no place upon God's earth for the poor !" 1 
 rejoined. " They ought to be killed off by Act of 
 Congress !" 
 
 He said nothing. That was his way when I was very 
 unreasonable or petulant. He only kissed me and went 
 off to his afternoon work.. And I, when I had put the 
 room in order and laid the table for tea, sat down witli my 
 sewing by the window, and drew tighter the bands of des- 
 pondency and doubt of God and man about my heart 
 
with every stitch, until, between the cloudy twilight and 
 the mist in my eyes, I could see no longer. Then, I laid 
 my arms upon my work-stand— a pillow for my aching 
 head — and " continued the subject." 
 
 Christmas Eve ! We had spent but one in the elegant 
 home in which I had began housekeeping, but what a 
 glad, social party we had assembled there that night. 
 We danced and sang and talked until midnight, and, then, 
 as the bells rang in the Christmas morning, we exchanged 
 gifts and wishes for the future of one another, breathing 
 peace and good-will. Agnes Leonard stayed all night 
 with me, and dined with us on Christmas Day. She was 
 the dearest friend of my girlhood, the dearer, with a great 
 pity blended with my tenderness after I guessed that she 
 had learned to love my betrothed before she knew of his 
 attachment to me. She had dropped me with the rest, 
 but gradually, shame, or lingering affection hindering her 
 from such abrupt renunciation as had been dealt out to 
 me by the many. She had not entered my humble abode 
 for a month or more, having affected to be wounded at 
 her last visit because I persisted in my refusal to go 
 abroad, except to church, and resolutely declined her in- 
 vitations to meet others at her house. Ned had seemed 
 to excuse me at the time, but privately told me afterward 
 that she had a right to be hurt ; begged me not to cast 
 away a tried and true friend for a " morbid whim." 
 
 Morbid ! That was what everybody called my state of 
 mind. No one understood the suffering that engendered 
 it— not even he for whose sake I chafed at the cruel 
 bondage of circumstance. It angered me that Ned took 
 Agnes' part. They seemed— these two— to be in a manner 
 leagued against me. I stood alone — shut off from the 
 world's notice and favor by penury— from the few who 
 loved me by my unhappy " whims." Thus it was that I 
 
fell to thinking- about Agnes— my old time friend — and 
 Ned. Of how much the)' liked and admired one another; 
 — of high, gay spirits and bright face and the graceful 
 figure always faultlessly arrayed, and the handsome for- 
 tune she held in her own right, while I had never been a 
 beauty or a wit, and was obliged now to wear faded, un- 
 fashionable dresses and mended gloves and made-over 
 ■;, bonnets, and had brought my husband no dowry except 
 
 I 1 a heart full of love. The love that was heart-break now 
 
 I ; at thought of the narrow sphere in Avhich he toiled, the 
 
 I ; meanness of his home— my helplessness. If he had but 
 
 ? married Agnes, who, I was sure, had once loved him 
 
 fondly ! Her hold upon him would have been the firm 
 ^ , grasp of a friend to one drowning in the surf that would 
 
 i have dragged him to shore and safety. Mine was the 
 
 ; clinging of limp sea-weed, entangling and holding him 
 
 ! down. 
 
 I " 1 wish 1 were dead I" I cried aloud, and passionately, 
 
 i; " That the tcjil and strain, the parting and the anguish 
 
 I I were over and that he were free !" 
 
 I ' I had wept my eyes dry before I caught the sound of 
 
 : ; the light, fleet tread, the joyous whistle which had often 
 
 ^ jarred upon my mood. To-night they were a positive 
 
 I \ insult to my finest heelings, — to the sublime self-abnega- 
 
 I ' tion that had moved me to prayer for my own untimely 
 
 I : decease. Up to the second floor he bounded--three stairs 
 
 I at a time and was in the room before I could light the gas. 
 
 IJ There was firelight enough to show him where I stood, 
 
 t , and he laughed as he kissed me in the dark. 
 
 ^ " Asleep or dreaming, my darling ? ' he said, and taking 
 
 I ] the match I had struck, he" touched the drop-light over 
 
 ^ I the tea-table, bringing out starry glints from goblets and 
 
 fruit-dish, and making moons of light u[ion the silver. 
 " 1 have a trifle here for you. Pet," he went on in play- 
 
ful tenderness that had in it a shadow of wistfuhiess I | | 
 
 could not but observe, " I couldn't get anything elaborate. , | 
 
 you know. This little preacher spoke to nie (Vom a win- 
 dow as I was passing a picture store." 
 
 It was just a colored print— such as you can buy for 
 twenty five cents, straw frame and all — of a Robin Red- 
 breast perched upon a log-fence covered with snow, — a 
 winter landscape all about him ; in the distance a low- 
 roofed cottage, also snow-topped, and over-head a leaf- 
 less tree. 
 
 " Singing in the Snow !" said Ned, softly, putting his 
 arm around me. " Bless his brave heart ! Wouldn't one 
 say his throat was swelling with summer music } That 
 is because he looks right up, you see, and knows while 
 the sun moves and shines the return of summer is 
 sure !" 
 
 I held the picture, my head bent above it until the u\)- 
 ward gush of a new and sweeter fountain of tears could 
 be no longer restrained. 
 
 " O, Ned,'' I sobbed, hiding my head upon the dear 
 breast I had deceived myself into imagining I was willing 
 should be another's resting place. " Forgive me ! 1 have 
 been so weak and wicked ! Rut I will try again !" 
 
 He had a message for me from Agnes who had called 
 at the office that day. We must dine with her to-morrow. 
 The carriage would call for us early in the forenoon. 
 
 " We can give her our answer at the lecture to-night," . 
 said Ned in the most natural way in the world. " See ! 
 I shall hang Robin at the top of your toilet-glass !" 
 
 That was six years ago. Times are better with us now. 
 Ned has resumed his law practice, and we have a whole 
 house to ourselves and baby, in a pleasant quarter of the 
 city. In place of the small oval which was my little 
 preacher's pulpit then, he hangs against a plate-glass. 
 
wide and high, with a richly carved frame, but his closer 
 setting is still the red-and-white straw. Strangers eye 
 him with polite wonder ; my more intimate visitors smile 
 and question. 
 
 " Only one of my whims," I answer. 
 
 Nobody but Ned and I must know his story and his 
 mission. Even he has never learned how dark was the 
 hour, how dire my need vvhen Robin came to me with 
 his text—" Singing in tlje Snow !" 
 
 Marion Harland. 
 
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