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good—which make such a wicked world. One
finds in that most masterly poem the expression
of every emotion —love, hatred, vengeauce,
pardon, strength, feebleness, sensibility, resis
tance, resignation, hope, despair—and what not.
besides ? One finds therein the description of
the beauty and the poetry of every country.
Os Greece one reads:
“ Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that look* on thee,” Ac.
Os Spain:
** Oh Christ, it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land, Ac.
Os Italy:
“ Italia, oh Italia! looking on thee
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,” Ac.
Arrived at Venice, one repeats:
“ I stood at Venice on the bridge of sighs," Ac.
At Rome:
••Oh Rome, my country! City of the Soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,” Ac.
Fmding one’s self near the Coliseum:
“A ruin! yet what ruins," Ac.
"While stands the Coliseum, Borne shall stand,” Ac.
Are you visiting the immortal spot where the
combined nations struggled against one single
mighty spirit?
“ Stop, for thy tread is on an empire's dust”
Os Napoleon, one reads:
“ Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou,
She trembles at thee still, and thy great name,” Ac.
How charmingly one hears about Tasso,
Dante, Petrarch, d’Alfieri, Rousseau, Voltaire,
and how many statesmen, philosophers!
Have you a passion for the sea—and would
you apostrophize it ? There you have the grand
Ode, Canto IV., 128, 129, Ac., Ac.
Are you a parent, and can you read with dry
eyes or a quiet heart, these beautiful, thrilling
lines:
*• To aid tliy mind's development, to watch
Thy dawn of little joys—to sit and see
Almost thy very growth—to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee—
To hold thee lightly on a parent's knee.
To print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss—
This it would seem was not reserved for me,
Yet this was in my nature —os It is
I know not what is there but something like to this.”
Well, you see there is no use ever again to
lecture me on the subject of my excessive liking
for this beautiful poem. I declare, I do think,
that were there but this one written, and people
knew it familiarly, three-fourths of the civilized
' world would hardly ever feel the want of an
other.
What would the other fourth do, who did not
happen to concur in that opinion? Why—l
don’t know—do as you do, 1 suppose, when
you are ready to hear my lesson, and find I have
•forgotten" to learn my verbs—take what you
can get and make the best of it.
4f>
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
A WISH—A REGRET.
BV MRS. JULIA L. KEYES.
I could not wish this love of mine
To be one ray the less,
And yet I cannot oft but wish
This feeling to repress,
Which makes me now so strangely sad—
My heart so still and lone,
That e'en my thoughts return to me,
As they were not my own.
That e'en the merry "sounds of home”
Which fall upon my ear,
Meet but a half responsive smile,
And lose their wonted cheer.
1 thought to-night he might return;
I sat within the door,
And watch'd eve's mantle falling low,
As I have done before.
I saw the sun-set's crimson glow
Fade slowly in the west—
I saw the little, weary birds
Fly to their shelter'd nest,
And banks of soften'd purple clouds
Moved slowly in the sky,
Dissolving in a dimmer hne,
Till all had floated by—
And faintly the young Moon appear'd
And cast its pallid light
As if to chase away all hope,
And whisper, “It is night.”
Then came from my full soul a wish,
An earnest deep regret—
A wish that I could teach my heart
Dependence to forget
Regret that I must ever feel
When he hath gone away,
Such loneliness and weariness
As I have felt to-day.
—
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE POLITICIAN’S WIFE.
BY LAURA LINCOLN.
“ Well, wife, our Representative to Congress
is elected at last Pretty tough work, though,
we’ve had during the canvass. I always proph
esied that Henry Faulkner was destined to
make liis mark in the world. I noted him down
from the first as a rising man.”
Thus spoke James Glover, on entering his
wife’s sitting room one sultry August afternoon.
“ How proud his wife must be of him,” re
turned Mrs. Glover. 11 When they married five
years ago, he had nothing but his profession,
and now, by industry and perseverance, he is in
comfortable circumstances, and member of Con
gress elect.”
“ Yes, he is not yet thirty, and there is no
office to which he may not aspire, for liis talents
are unquestioned. Doubtless Mrs. Faulkner
thinks that she has drawn a high prize in the
matrimonial lottery.”
“ I will go over and see Amelia this evening,”
said Mrs. Glover, “ and congratulate her upon
her husband's success.”
Mrs. Glover did so, and was surprised to see
Mrs. Faulkner, instead of looking joyous and
animated as she expected, wearing an anxious
and troubled expression. Her reply to her
friend’s warmly proffered good wishes, was:
“ Ah! Mary, ‘ all is not gold that glitters,’ and
I would gladly exchange places with you.”
Mrs. Glover told her husband what Mrs.
Faulkner had said, at the same time remarking:
“ I am afraid that Amelia is growing selfish
and capricious. What more could a woman de
sire than she has? Two lovely children, and a
handsome, talented husband, who is devoted to
l ,er ; Perhaps she thinks that, in becoming a
politician, the demand upon her husband's time
and attention will be too great. But then she
should make some sacrifice for her country’s
good.”
Mrs. Glover took upon herself to judge of her
friind 8 motives of action, unknowing all the
circumstances, and forgetting the Divine precept,
■‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.”
But let us, who are privileged, look behind
the scenes, and see how nearly correct were
that lady’s surmises.
w A fev l llours Previous to Mrs. Glover's visit,
llenry Faulkner had come home, and accosted
his wife with:
Well, Amelia, this tiresome canvass is over
9
XKE SQVXBEAS YXE&9 ASS VXEKSXUX.
at last, and lam the successful candidate. Are
you not glad, my dear?” and stooping, he press
ed a kiss upon her lips.
Amelia made no reply, for her heart was too
heavy for words. In the beautiful hazel eye
which encountered hers, she saw the fixed,
glassy expression which she had learned to
dread. This, with the strong fumes of ardent
spirits, which she caught with his breath, assur
ed her that Henry Faulkner “ had been drink
ing.” At the time that Mrs. Glover called, he
was thrown upon his bed, sleeping off the ef
fects of his potations. His slumber was pro
found, and lasted until the tea-bell sounded for
tea.
After he had partaken of that meal, he pushed
back his chair from the table, and said to his
wife:
“ Amelia, I have been invited to attend a
party to-night, gotten up by some gentlemen
friends in honor of my election.”
“Oh 1 Henry, do not go,” exclaimed Mrs.
Faulkner. “ You have been away so much of
late—stay with me to-night”
“ I would much prefer doing so, my dear,” re
turned lier husband, “ but as this is done solely
for my benefit, it would look very strangely, to
say the least of it for me to be absent And
besides, I have promised to be there, and you
would not have me break my word. I will be
home early, so art revoir" and Mr. Faulkner
took his hat and left the house.
Mrs. Faulkner sank into her seat a9 the door
closed upon the form of her husband, and burst
into a passion of tears. She aroused herself,
however, ere long, and proceeded to undress
and put her children to bed. Then kneeling be
side their little cots, she prayed long and fer
vently that this bitter cup might pass from her,
but if He so ordained that she its bitter dregs
should drain, His holy will, not her’s, be done.
When Henry Faulkner, then a poor but ener
getic young lawyer, had offered his hand and
heart five years agone, she had joyfully accepted
them, deeming no poverty or privation hard, so
that they were shared with him. In all these
years he had been a tender and affectionate hus
band, and Amelia had felt herself supremely
blest. At times she fancied that she detected
the smell of liquor in his breath, and wondered
at his fits of sudden liveliness, which sometimes
bordered upon the undignified.
When he informed her that his party had
honored him by nominating him as Representa
tive to Congress, her heart forboded evil, for
she knew how pregnant with harm was the life
of a politician. For two months previous to the
election, she had seen but little of him, and that
little was by no means satisfactory. For days
at a time he would bo absent, canvassing the
district, and when he returned, he would allege
fatigue as an excuse for sleeping long and
soundly. But the keen eye of affection was
not thus easily deceived, and Amelia perceived
that her husband was fast yielding him a slave
to the fatal habit of drink. Tearfully and ear
nestly did she remonstrate with him. His only
reply was:
“ Oh, pshaw, Amelia, you don’t know any
thing about it. lam obliged to treat the people,
in order to get their votes. Only wait until this
election is over, and I will be as sober and
steady as you wish.”
And with this the poor wife was compelled
to be satisfied, hoping that her fears had exag
gerated the danger, and that all would yet turn
out well. She looked forward with impatience
to the “ ides of March” —the first Monday in
August. And now she saw that her husband,
once launctied upon the ocean of public life,
would no longer consider himself as belonging
to his family, but to his country.
The result transcended her worst fears.
Henry Faulkner was brought home that night
by some of his companions, in a state of com
plete intoxication.
Year after year rolled on, and the noble, high
minded Henry Faulkner had “ fallen from his
high estate." Not in the public estimation,
though, for other offices of distinction had been
bestowed upon him, and the newspapers far
and wide rang with praises of his superior tal
ents aud eloquence. The fatal stimulant had
become habitual to him, but familiarity had
deadened its effect, and it was seldom that he
allowed himself to be overcome by it. But the
heart-broken wife at home, whose household
gods had been rudely thrown down, she felt the
change from the tender, chivalrous husband of
old, to the cold, coarse, moody, tyrannical mate
of later years.
The abovo is no fiction , but the “o’er true” story
of a young man, whose love of drink originated
in the custom of political treating; grew and
became confirmed by it, and ended finally in the J
blighting of his family’s happiness, and the ruin
of his own character.
When will such things have an end ? Never,
we fear, till the ruin of our country’s liberties,
to which they rapidly tend, shall be accom
plished !
— —
The birds’ nests which have been recently in
troduced as an article of consumption into Paris,
as a general thing are nothing more than fish
glue, although the genuine nests can be purchas
ed for about S7O per hundred weight in the
crude state. The chemist, Mr. Payen, on sub
mitting the Chinese moss or alga of Java to
chemical analysis, obtained clear gelatine, far
preferable from that obtained from fish. Com
paring it with the Chinese birds’ nests, lie found
that the swallows which make these nests must
make use of this alga, working over its gelatin
ous matter as our swallows do in plastering up
their nests. The birds’ nest gelatine can now
be made directly from the alga at a greatly re
duced cost. It is also suggested that this gelatine
may enter into the composition of Ink, now on
ly known to the Chinese.
— ' ABM—
The French journals announce a new discov
ery. It is an artificial light, so luminous and
steady as to supply the effect of the most bril
liant noontide sun in all photographic operations.
The 'light being contained in a portable appa
ratus, portraits can be taken at private resi
dences, even in the darkest room, wholly inde
pendent of the state of the atmosphere; and
those parts of cathedrals, or other picturesque
architectural monuments, where the light of the
sun never penetrates, and which, in consequence,
have been until now wholly shut out from the
photographer, will be as accessible to the artist
as any part of the exterior.
——
The invention of bells is attributed to Poloni
ous, Bishop of Nola, Campania, about the year
400. They were first introduced into churches
as a defense against thunder and lightning; they
were first put up at Croyland Abbey, Lincoln
shire, in 945. In the 11th century and later, it
was the custom to baptise them in the church
es before they were used. The curfew bell was
established in 1078. It was rung at eight in the
evening, when people were obliged to put out
their fires and candles. The custom was abol
ished in 1100. Bellmen were first appointed in
London in 155 G, to ring the bells at night and
cry out, “Take care of your fire and candle ; be
charitable to the poor, and pray for the dead!”
For the Southern Field and Fireside.
LOUD LYLE AND BESSIE BROWN.
BY FANNY FIELDING, OF NORFOLK, TA.
PART FIRST,
i.
Lord Lyle is too old for a lover,
Too old for a lover for me!
My years have but told sunny sixteen.
My Lord’s number seventy-three.
IL
My hair flows in waves like a river,
As golden as golden can be.
My Lord's locks, so gingerly scattered,
Are white as the foam on the sea.
ni.
The bean-patch is white with its blossoms,
The new hay Is lying in heaps;
llow sweet, as I sit on the hay-rick.
And hear Robin's song as he reaps,
tv.
O, I'll never be a fine lady!
Lord Lyle, in his castle so grim,
Would fearfully frown, should he hoar ms
But whisper such pleasures to him.
v.
O, how could I ever encounter
The grey, leaden look in his eye,
While Robin says mine have caught color
From looking so mnch at the sky.
vi.
O, liberty, liberty ever!—
Lord Lyle Is no lover for me!
O, what are his gold and his treasures
To all the gay pleasures I see !
VII.
My mother—dear mother! now listen,
You'd give me away to the Earl;
You'd give little barefooted Bessie
Away to yon old castled churl!
vui.
My mother —dear mother! now listen—
Don't barter for diamond or pearl
The blithe little heart of your Bessie —
Don’t give her away to the Earl!
IX.
Oh, how should I feel in a castle,
Shut up like a caged little bird—
My lord with his knowledge and Nobles,
And I saying never a word?
x.
Oh, liberty—liberty ever!
And freedom to rise with the day,
And race through the sweet-scented clover,
And rake up the newly-mown hay!
XI.
The wild-roao that runs in the meadow—
The woodbine the window peeps through,
Even they would miss poor little Bessie,
And mother, dear mother, wouldn't you ?
XII.
T’other day, as I sat at my spinning—
I can listen and spin too, you know—
Young Robin, with accents so winning,
Said, —well, —said—he hoped I'd say—“No!”
XIII.
Not “No” to young Robin, the peasant,—
Dear mother! nay, banish that frown!
Or save it lest ever should greet you—
“ Lord Lyle married low Bessie Brmcn !"
xiv.
Young Robin, the reaper, came wooing,
And, oh! it seems fitter to me
To be mated and matched with a peasant,
Than any Lord’s lady to be!
xv.
Than any Lord's lady to be, mother,
Where great ones and rich of the earth
Would worship the wealth of my master,
And sneer at my own lowly birth.
XVI.
Away, then, with courts and with courtiers!
The castle and tenant so grim!
Lord Lyle is no lover for Bessie,
And Bessie no Lady for him!
PART SECOND.
i.
Mine the castle—his the cot.
Robin, Robin, blame me not!
’Twas an evil hour that told
Bessie bought by lordly gold.
IL
Many a night I’ve waked and wept,
, While my lordly husband slept;
Moonlight on these castle heights
Mocked the dreams of other nights.
lIL
Perfume on the midnight air
Wafts my spirit back to where
Meadow-rose and woodbine .wild
Made me happy when a child.
IV.
Oh! for one of these to wear,
To supplant the jewels rare!
Such a weary, weary weight—
And bv heart—how desolate!
v.'
Robin, when you reap the hay,
Wakes its odor any Uay
Yisions of a merry heart,
Os your own the other part ?
VL
When the plum trees blossom white,
Think you ever of the bright
Happy days of long ago,
And the one that made them so ?
TIL
Oft, when riding to the town, —
Eaves embossed in mossy brown,
Running-rose beside the door,
Children playing on the floor—
VIII.
Robin's cot, I, dashing by,
From my giided coach espy,
And I smile, and careless say
Words, to keep my thoughts away.
IX.
Weary—weary heart and brain,
Will you never joy again?
Never in your onward gaze
Dream the dreams of other days?
x.
Nay, alas! 'Tis done —'tis done!
Love is lost, but wealth is won.
May be on some better shore
1 shall dream and wake no more, —
XI.
Dream again the dream of youth—
Live once more my days of truth;
I'll be his and he'll be mine,
And Love’s light again shall shine.
XII.
I'll be his and he'll be mine—
Heart!—what is this thought of thine ?
Traitor!—exorcised,—aside!
Th’ spell—Lord Lyle, and Robin's bride!
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
DECEMBER.
BV ABRAHAM GOOSEQUII.L.
And so December is once more upon us—not
simply the twelfth month in the year, the be
ginning of winter, with its dull leaden skies and
; its cold bleak winds, that sigh and moan, and
howl the funeral dirge of the departing year.
But December is here, a present, living embodi
ment, with a heart beneath his old ribs, and a
tongue that speaketh loud things, and a voice
that preacheth sermons—better sermons, far,
than many you shall hear from the white neck
ties that stand up in the narrow boxes of the
little church or the larger temple.
This old preacher stands up in the great “build
ing not made with hands,” whose huge dome
goes swelling up to Heaven. And you hear his
voice in the wind that whistles through the for
est —you hear it in the delicious strains of the
:i‘olian harp—you hear it as
“Through yon pine the moaning zephyr grieves.”
In the voice of the little snow-bird, that now
comes back South—in the frosty tnll of the
field-sparrow, and the note of the golden-breast
ed lark, —you hear old December preach. And
you hear him sermonize in the murmuring of
the brook and the roar of the distant river.
And doth he not preach to you, too, in the voice
of the little chirping cricket, and the purring of
the (Sat by the hearth, and the squeak of the tiny
mouse in the pantry, and the crackling of the
fire, and the voice of the prisoner in the wood
that burns upon the andirons? Yes, December
preaches to you in all these things. “He that
hath ears to hear, let him hear." I listen for
myself, and understand what of the sermon I am
able, with my dull ear. lam no sacred rates to
Interpret for others.
The cricket, the cat, the mouse, the treader of
the embers, the being that murmurs in the wood
—these are some of our household gods. What
would any fireside be without these ? Would
you not feel half your domestic altars broken
down, if these were taken away ? They are all
beings—existences—and, for aught you know
to the contrary, intelligences. How can you
say that they are uot? Is it true that Inspira
tion only speaks of man as an Immortality?
That may be so; but because Revelation chooses
to be silent about these other things, must we
therefore entirely degrade them—even almost
annihilate them—in the scale of existences?
For aught I know to the contrary, even Py
thagoras himself may, in the form of a cricket, be
an inmate of my domicile. And when he chirps
his midnight song amid the welcome “ voices of
the night,” lie may be teaching my listening ear
a lesson in his great doctrine of Harmony.—
What is that you say about superstition? Ah,
my friend, what is superstition ? Think awhile
of that. Is not superstition a good thing in its
place ? —a necessary element in man’s nature ?
What is it ? Is it not the only' thing which gives
man a partial insight into other worlds, and other
systems, and other universes, besides those
which we call material? Is it not the connect
ing link between “things seen," and “ things un
seen” ? Is it not the eye of faith ? How could
we see into the spiritual world without it ? Can
even Revelation disjiense with it? Mind, 1 do
not ask if God can dispense with it—if he could
have dispensed with it in the creation of man.
This is not my query. My mind never asks
questions concerning the capacity of the Omni
potent. But this is the point I make: As God
ordains the natural eye to see things physical,
did He not ordain superstition the eye of faith,
by which man shall see things spiritual ?
Be careful, oh! man. how thou wouldst de
stroy superstition, even if thou couldst. Wouldst
thou not thus leave man a gross, physical, sen
sual, material existence, instead of the semi-spi
ritual being which it pleased his Maker to cre
ate him?
Do you talk to me about the abuse of super
stition ? Do you tell me it frequently gives men
improper views of things? That it often sees
wrongly? In these things you but speak the'
truth. And at the same time I, too, speak the
truth, when I tell you that the natural eye also
often sees things wrongly—becomes jaundiced
—is subject to illusions. And so any sense of
mortal man, and any faculty of his miud, or pas
sion, all right when kept in healthy action and
restrained within their proper spheres, may be
abused, and thus become a curse instead of a
blessing.
But—speaking after the manner of a Yankee
fisherman—let me begin to reel up my’ line. I
went fishing in the Sea of Thought—some ill
natured person may say, the J [are Tennebrarum
—and I hooked an idea. Off it started, as it
found the barb in its gills, and I began to pay
oft' my line, giving it to the fish at great length.
But the game has splashed sufficiently through
the waves, and so I begin to reel up my line
again. And now that I have safely gotten the
fish into the basket of my composition, revenons
a nos montons.
The reader will be enabled to perceive that
the “ other fish which I have to fry,” or am go
ing in pursuit of, are of the kind denominated
sheeps'-head. This must be so, or I could not,
with propriety, have used the above quotation
from the French.
[Note. —I said that in speaking of “reeling up
my line,” I spoke “after the manner of a Yan
kee fisherman.” You will understand by this,
that when I go fishing, I do not use your down
East fishing tackle of jointed rods aud reels for
my line now, as I have that line fathoms in
length. Neither do I have spears nor fish forks,
nor landing nets. But I take a simple cane-pole,
a single hook, or drag, and a line of fixed length.
And when I hook a fish, I don’t give him line,
nor stop to parley with him. But he is landed
with little ceremony, by main strength. If he
can break the tackle I use and make good his
escape—
“ Why bless him, let itim go!"]
But “returning to our sheep”—that is the
mouse, the cat, &c. Let us pay our respects to
them, as well as to the cricket.’ We can hardly
make a Pythagoras of each of these. But mind
you, I aid not say the cricket in my jamb was
actually the founder of the doctrine of the Me
tempsychosis. Oh! no. I only said for aught
I knew to the contrary lie was.
Well, the cat! Here she lies at my feet, purr
ing away, fat, sleek, and saucy. Ever and anon,
she puts out her toes, stretches her legs, and
sheathes her curving claws in the soft wool of
the carpet. It is strange, the noise she makes.
It resembles somewhat the sound made by the
flax wheel, which was once in vogue with our
grandames. Hence, the saying used to be, when
I was a child, “ the cat is spinning flax.” The
children of the present generation would not un
derstand this saying. How I do pity all chil
dren born in these days—pity them for not hav
ing been born in the good old time.
Spinning wheels are passing away. Soon the
people who live in the country, even, will know
them no more forever. As to those poor, delu
ded unfortunates who were born and raised in
the city, whoso poor souls are bounded by brick,
mortar and dust, and who very seldom see a
tree, or hear a bird sing—how can these be*
nighted souls be expected to have seen or heard
of a spinning wheel, or a flax-wheel? And if
they have never heard the sound of these, how
can they possibly comprehend the poetry of the
cat, when she “spins flax ”? Oh! the heathen
are to be pitied, and prayed for,
“ From Greenland’s Icy mountains,
From India's coral strands,
Where Afric’s sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sands
But surely, surely the inhabitants of the city are
much more to be commiserated and interceded
for. Because if
“The heathen, in their blindness.
Bow down to wood and stone,”
do not even the people of the city the same ?
What care they except for “ blocks” of stone,
and ibortar and wood ? And though you can
not see the bones of the victims, what are these
but monuments built upon the toil and muscles,
and the very heart’s blood, and the despairing
souls of the sons of poverty ? And even if these
things be not so, is it not still true that city peo
ple cannot understand you when you tell them
that the cat is “ spinning flax ” ?
Now I happen to be more fortunate. I have
seen a flax wheel, and turned it, and heard the
sound thereof. When I was a child, I used fre
quently to steal up into the garret of my father’s
house, upon the third story, when the sun was
shining very bright, for I could not venture
there if it was cloudy, or early in the morning,
oc growing late in the evening, or was by any
other means a little dark: you see there were
stones of witches and ghosts connected with that
garret But I managed to steal up into it, with
some trepidation, when the sun made a great
flood of light and there I used to see and turn
a flax wheel that had belonged to my grand
mother in the days of the Revolution, and which
did service in the way of providing clothing for
my grandfather, who was a quarter-master in the
continental army. So you see I kuow through,
very noble instrumentalities, and very hallowed
associations, what is meant by a cat’s “ spinning
flax.”
While I am writing and pussy is purring, or
more properly, “ spinning flax,” the little mouse
is nibbling away in the walls, not at all uneasy
about the cat, since he is in such a snug and
safe retreat. And the cat seems to think it use
less for her to try to reach him in his citadel, and
so licks her whiskers and thinks to herself, “ I’ll
get you to-night.”
Tread-ember and Myrhma keep up tlicir por
tion of the acting upon the hearth. And who
are these, some ignorant body will ask. They
are two of the unseen spirits of the fireside. —
You may hear them, but they are invisible.—
Have you never heard the old people say to the
young ones, when the latter were disposed to
talk too much, “ Children should be seen and not
heard "? Well Tread-ember and Myrhma act
upon just the opposite principle that they
should be heard and not seen. You have heard
of the fire treading the snow, haven’t you? If
not, then I pity you. But if we ever have snow
again, When you walk over it, listen to the sound;
and then when you get back and take your seat
by the fire, listen and see if you do not hear
amid the glowing coals a sound similar to that
produced by walking upon the snow. Ah! that
is Tread-ember, a sort of spirit salamander, tramp
ing amid the flames.
When a stick of green wood is thrown upon
the fire, as it begins to burn, you have heard a
murmuring sound issue therefrom. And the old
women have told you, perchance, that it was a
worm in the wood, crying because he was burn
ing up. Little do they know about it. The
sound is made by Myrhma, one of the Dryads
moaning for the tree that has been felled from
her beloved forest aud cast upon its funeral pile.
But perchance I may tell you more about Tread
ember and Myrhma hereafter.
Thus have I discoursed about some of the in
ferior deities of my household gods. I have said
nothing about the superior divinities who dwell
upon the Olympus of my affections. These—if
“you will pardon the rapid transition from one
figure to another—are shut up in the inner tem
ple of my heart and my household. For one mo
ment will I draw the veil partially aside. There
sits Mrs. G wsequill—like a good housewife —as
busy as a bee, acting as the motive power to a
Quaker City sewing machine. She is sitting in
the corner, snug, cosy and warm. The last
Field and Fireside lies beside her, and anon she
stops the machine and runs over the paper, when
Mike goes up and asks his mamma to show him
the pictures. Annie, a thougbful, good little
girl, and our first-born —tells “ buddy ” Mike
not to bother mother. He may come and see
her doll. And Willie, the very imp of mischief,
has taken advantage of my momentary absence
to dip his finger in the ink and blot tins page.
We generally let Willie alone in his mischief, be
cause we are afraid that if we make him quit
one thing, he will go into something worse. So
we are very willing to compromise with him up
on what he is at. There now! draw the curtain
back again.
We have looked around in-doors. Now let us
take a peep out of doors. Let me draw near
the window that looks upon the front view of
our cottage. It is unseemly weather to-day, and
I must keep in the house; for I have lately been
down very near the valley of the shadow of death.
The shade was in my heart, and the sound of
the river of death gurgles in mine ears. So I
must take care of my health.
It is a damp, drippy, foggy morning, The
Madeira vine hangs dead upon the wire trellis
that skirts the front porch. The two old post
oaks, now stripped of their leaves, lock their
branches above the gate, forming an arch over
the entrance to the yard. Lately they were
clad in emerald, and festooned in luxuriant sum
mer foliage. Now their raiment is gone, but
the mosses, and the lichens, and the ferns cling
to their rough and gnarled old trunks still. Be
neath them the flower yard is laid off into dia
monds, and squares, aud quadrants, and ob
longs. Violets—sweet little violets —skirt the
borders supported in the rear by the fresh green
Kentucky blue-grass. And ah! the delicious
aroma the little blue flowers send in through the
cottage window. But a few days ago some of
them were gathered and laid upon the table near
my sick bed, and gave fragrance to my nostril
and hope to my sinking heart. Thank God for
violets that bloom in the Spring, that bloom in
the Summer, that bloom in the Autumn, that
bloom in the Winter—that know no seasons—
that ask not for sunshine —that breathe, their
odor in times dreary as well as in hours bright
and that in the gloomest moments are ever on
hand to give the sunshine of their smiling faces
to the desponding blossom !
Beyond the yard, out in the field, among the
plum-bushes, there goes Pussy, I declare, trying
to steal the march upon some luckless sparrow,
or field-mouse, that does not expect her coming-
A few moments ago, Willie twisted the cats
tail, and she has gone out of doors to seek re
venge among the innocents. But a crowd o
jays follow her, squalling in her ear, and giving
notice to any unfortunate little birdor amm
that might otherwise fall into her clutche...
Pussy stops now and then, and looks daggers i
d