I HAVE read of a certain regiment ordered to march into a small town (in the Tyrol, I think), and take it. It chanced that the place was settled by a colony who believed the gospel of Christ, and proved their faith by works. A courier from a neighboring village informed them that troops were advancing to take the town. They quietly answered, “If they will take it, they must.” Soldiers soon came riding in, with colors flying and fifes piping shrill defiance. They looked around for an enemy, and saw the farmer at his plow, the blacksmith at his anvil, and the women at their churns and spinning wheels. Babies crowded around to hear the music, and the boys ran out to see the pretty trainers, with feathers and bright buttons, the harlequins of the nineteenth century. Of course, none of these were in a proper position to be shot at. “Where are your soldiers?” asked they. “We have none,” was the brief reply. “But we have come to take the town.” “Well, friends, it lies before you.” “But is there here nobody to fight?” “No; we are all Christians.” Here was an emergency altogether unprovided for by military schools. This was a sort of resistance which no bullet could hit, a fortress perfectly bomb proof. The commander was perplexed. “If there is nobody to fight with, of course we cannot fight,” said he. “It is impossible to take such a town as this.” So he ordered his horses’ heads to be turned about, and they carried the human animals out of the village, as guiltless as when they entered, and perchance somewhat wiser.—Sel.