SUNDAY MORNING AT BEDMINSTER CHURCH.

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miles around, means much more than one located near populous towns and cities. It is the beating heart, the life-giving centre, around which all the neighborhood interests and hopes circulate. It is also a weekly interchange of news and gossip, and the people on Sunday morning lay in a store for the coming six days not altogether confined to uses of religious and spiritual comfort. As the hour for service approaches the women have passed inside, but the men gather about the door or under the trees, discussing their horses, the crops and whatever may have been of interest during the past week. This Sunday morning talk is not limited to the one sex, for, on entering, we would find the wives and daughters in animated converse over the backs and partitions of the pews. When the sexton has rung the last bell, by stoutly pulling two ropes depending from the belfry to the vestibule floor, the men come clattering through the doors, which face the congregation on either side of the pulpit. The elders and deacons, first depositing their hats on the sides of the tall pulpit stair, seat themselves to the right and left of the minister, their faces settling into the dignified composures due their official positions. Gradually a hush pervades the congregation, preceding the solemn invocation. The blessing over, a stir and bustle in the rear gallery proclaim the large choir to be standing. The cheery-cheeked girls are shaking out their frocks, the stalwart youths are clearing their throats; now is the ear of every child in the assemblage alert to hear the first twang of the tuning fork, following which comes the long concerted "do-mi-soldo," of the choir. They have the pitch, and break away into a loud psalm of praise, or song of thanksgiving, the large congregation taking up the refrain, till the old church rings with that most jubilant of all music, hearty congregational singing.

And so the service continues, with prayer and praise, and sermon and doxology, not forgetting the collection, taken up in funny little black bags poked down the pews at the end of long poles. I must acknowledge it is many years since I have been in this time-honored church; but, doubtless, there have been few or no changes since the closing pastorate of Domine Schenck, some thirty or so years ago. How well I remember, in those days, the pleasure with which a certain small boy, in a roundabout brass-buttoned jacket and nankeen trousers, looked for

ward to a summer Sunday morning at the old church. His seat was well up toward the pulpit, and, did the service grow wearisome, through the open door could be seen the horses biting at the flies, the leaves stirring in the soft south breeze, and the hovering butterflies floating in the sweet sunshine over the closeknit turf of the green. Will ever be forgotten the delightful old lady who sat in a great square pew immediately in front of the one occupied by that same small boy; and who, when he, lulled by the monotone of the sermon, or the droning of the drowsy bees that circled in and out the open door, nodded with sleep, would surreptitiously pass behind little bunches of penny-royal, or other fragrant herbs, and on rare occasions-ah happy day!a store-bought peppermint lozenge. But enough of boyhood and Bedminster church. It is quite time for us to be looking about the village.

All this time our stage-wagon is still rolling on; not very rapidly it is true; the horses seem exhausted by a previous journey. You must remember they have dragged a heavy load from Peapack—twelve miles-this morning; now, when thus far on their return, the slackening trace and more pronounced jog proclaim their protest against speed. Presently our goal is in plain sight, facing us as we drive along the straight road which stretches over a level country, 'twixt meadows, orchards and comfortable homesteads. The attractive parsonage, with its surrounding glebe, is behind us on the left; beyond, on the right, down a tree-embowered lane, a glimpse is obtained of a substantial farm house and its old-fashioned garden. On we roll, passing the forge with its waiting horses, loud-breathing fire, and dusky interior, until the stage creaks and strains as it mounts the side hill, and comes to a stand-still at the Bedminster tavern, which rests on the edge of the first terrace of the incline. Here ends our ride; Bedminster and the Lesser Cross Roads, owing to a recent fiat of the Post-office Department being one and the

same.

First impressions are not always to be relied upon. Perhaps you do not like my village? I must confess it has an air rather unkempt and forlorn: it can hardly be called a village,—just a wayside hamlet. In the last century, when these four roads met here, or rather, the two highways crossed each other, the nat

THE LESSER CROSS-ROADS.

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ural consequence was that industrial germ of all new settlements -a blacksmith shop. Later came the store and tavern. Little houses have since dropped hap-hazard along the roadsides, but the village has long been finished, and now seems quite in the decadence of age. Its most pleasing aspect is along the north road, where the rusty old houses with their gable ends fronting the highway picturesquely cluster in patches of white and gray on the successive terraces that form the ascending hillside. Trees and generous shade were evidently not considered adjuncts to rural beauty by "the forefathers of the hamlet;" yet, notwithstanding the bareness of the place, it has a quaintness of its own, due to the antiquated houses with their old-fashioned gardens, which offer a rather pleasing contrast to the newness of the buildings in so many of the New Jersey villages contiguous to the railways.

The small structure on the corner, opposite the tavern, is that magazine of wonders, a country store. Is it not a funny little shop? Just like one of the wooden houses that come in the boxes of toy villages. Its interior is odd enough to satisfy the most diligent searcher after the queer and old. The counters are worn smooth by the dorsal extremities of the neighborhood Solons, who have gathered here for sixty years of evenings, to settle the affairs of the nation and comment on the gossip of the country for miles around. Many an ancient joke has here over again won a laugh-many a marvelous tale has been listened to with openmouthed wonder by country lads, who have tramped miles for the pleasure of an evening in general society. Although it is a wee-store, here can be found everything, from a fishhook to a hayrake, from a quart of molasses to a grindstone. Dress patterns and calicoes-fast colors-rest on shelves; nail kegs and sugar-barrels offer seats for waiting customers; boots, pails and trace-chains decorate the ceiling; while dusty jars tempt the school children to barter eggs for sticks of peppermint and wintergreen, or the succulent Jackson-ball.

Of the roads focusing here, the one from the south we have travelled, and with the one towards the north we shall soon grow familiar. The west road leads to Lamington, New Germantown and the pleasant agricultural lands of Hunterdon; while the one on the east stretches away beyond the North