The words we sang were real poetry, and so distinctly enunciated as to leave no doubt in the listener's mind as to the language in which they were written.

We had not learned that tunes were musical tricks.

Better still were the Sunday evenings about the piano, everybody lending a helping (never hindering) voice, from grandpapa's cracked pipe down to the baby's tiny treble.

Every morning the Lord of the home heard "our voices ascending high" from the family altar, and in the nursery feverish or wakefully-fretful children were lulled to health-giving slumber by the mother's hymns.
These are some of the bits of home and church life we would do well to bring forward and add to the more intricate sum of to-day's living.
Granted, if you will, that we have outgrown what were to us the seemly garments of that past.

Before relegating them to the attic or ragpicker, would it not be prudent and pleasant to preserve the laces with which they were trimmed?
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