Looking toward sunset

by Unknown

CONTENTS.

		Page
The Friends	L. M. Child	[1]
The Good Old Grandmother	Anonymous	[37]
The Consolations of Age	Zschokke	[39]
The Old Man Dreams	O. W. Holmes	[44]
A Russian Lady		[46]
The Old Man’s Song	Anonymous	[51]
The Twenty-seventh of March	W. C. Bryant	[52]
A Christmas Story for Grandfather	Charles Dickens	[53]
John Anderson, my Jo	Robert Burns	[60]
Old Folks at Home	L. M. Child	[61]
Everlasting Youth	Edmund H. Sears	[62]
Life	Mrs. Barbauld	[68]
The Mysterious Pilgrimage	L. M. Child	[69]
The Happiest Time	Eliza Cook	[81]
Ode of Anacreon		[84]
Cicero’s Essay on Old Age		[85]
The Fountain	W. Wordsworth	[98]
A Poet’s Blessing	Uhland	[101]
Bernard Palissy		[102]
Old Age Coming	Elizabeth Hamilton	[123]
Unmarried Women	L. M. Child	[127]
The Old Maid’s Prayer	Mrs. Tighe	[144]
Grandfather’s Reverie	Theodore Parker	[146]
The House in the Meadow	Louise C. Moulton	[149]
A Story of St. Mark’s Eve	Thomas Hood	[152]
What the Old Woman Said	Anonymous	[161]
The Spring Journey	Heber	[163]
Moral Hints	L. M. Child	[164]
The Boys	O. W. Holmes	[184]
Ode of Anacreon		[185]
Mysteriousness of Life	Mountford	[186]
The Grandmother’s Apology	Alfred Tennyson	[189]
The Ancient Man	J. P. Richter	[193]
Milton’s Hymn of Patience	Elizabeth L. Howell	[210]
Letter from an Old Woman	L. M. Child	[212]
Bright Days in Winter	John G. Whittier	[223]
The Canary Bird	John Sterling	[224]
Old Bachelors	L. M. Child	[225]
Taking it Easy	G. H. Clark	[238]
Old Aunty	Anonymous	[241]
Richard and Kate	Robert Bloomfield	[250]
Ludovico Cornaro		[256]
Robin and Jeannie	Dora Greenwell	[271]
A Good Old Age	Mountford	[273]
My Psalm	John G. Whittier	[276]
John Henry von Dannecker		[279]
The Kitten and Falling Leaves	W. Wordsworth	[290]
Dr. Doddridge’s Dream		[292]
The Old Psalm-Tune	Harriet B. Stowe	[297]
The Lost Books of Livy		[300]
To One who wished me Sixteen Years Old	Alice Cary	[322]
Growing Old	Dinah Muloch	[324]
Equinoctial	Mrs. A.D.T. Whitney	[334]
Epitaph on the Unmated	E. S.	[335]
A Beautiful Thought	Convers Francis	[336]
At Anchor	Anonymous	[339]
November	H. W. Beecher	[341]
Meditations on a Birthday Eve	John Pierpont	[343]
The Grandmother of Slaves	H. J.	[346]
Auld Lang Syne	Robert Burns	[362]
Old Folks at Home	L. M. Child	[363]
Old Uncle Tommy	M. S.	[364]
Sitting in the Sun	Anonymous	[377]
Aunt Kindly	Theodore Parker	[379]
Crossing Over	Uhland	[383]
A Love Affair at Cranford	Mrs. Gaskell	[385]
To My Wife	Anonymous	[408]
The Evergreen of our Feelings	J. P. Richter	[410]
Our Secret Drawer	Anonymous	[414]
The Golden Wedding	F. A. Bremer	[416]
The Worn Wedding Ring	W. C. Bennett	[424]
Hints about Health	L. M. Child	[427]
The Invalid’s Prayer	Wesley	[440]
The Old Pastor and his Son	J. P. Richter	[441]
Rest at Evening	Adelaide A. Procter	[454]

THE FRIENDS.
By L. M. CHILD.

“By some especial care

Her temper had been framed, as if to make

A being, who, by adding love to peace,

Might live on earth a life of happiness.”

Wordsworth.

In the interior of Maine two girls grew to womanhood in houses so near that they could nod and smile to each other while they were making the beds in the morning, and chat through the open fence that separated their gardens when they went to pick currants for the tea-table. Both were daughters of farmers; but Harriet Brown’s father had money in the bank, while Jane White’s father was struggling hard to pay off a mortgage. Jane was not a beauty, but her fresh, healthy countenance was pleasant to look upon. Her large blue eyes had a very innocent expression, and there was always in them the suggestion of a smile, as if they sung the first note of a merry song for the lips to follow. Harriet was the belle of the county; with rosy cheeks, a well-shaped mouth, and black eyes, that were very bright, without being luminous from within. A close observer of physiognomy could easily determine which of the girls had most of heart and soul. But they were both favorites in the village, and the young men thought it was a pretty sight to see them together. In fact, they were rarely seen apart. Their leisure moments, on bright winter days, were spent in snow-balling each other across the garden-fence; and they kept up the sport hilariously long after their hands were numb and red with cold. In the long evenings, they made wagers which would soonest finish a pair of socks; and merry were the little crowings over the vanquished party. In spring, they hunted anemones and violets together. In autumn, they filled their aprons with brilliant-colored leaves to decorate the mantel-piece; stopping ever and anon to twine the prettiest specimens in each other’s hair. They both sat in the singing-seats at meeting. Harriet’s shrill voice was always heard above Jane’s, but it was defective in modulation, while music flowed through the warbling voice of her companion. They often bought dresses alike, with the agreement that, when the sleeves were worn, the two skirts should be used to make a new dress for the one who first needed it; and shrewd observers remarked that Harriet usually had the benefit of such bargains. Jane waited assiduously upon her mother, while Harriet’s mother waited upon her. One seemed to have come into the world to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. Harriet was prim in company, and some called her rather proud; but Jane was deemed imprudent, because whatever she said or did bubbled out of her heart. Their friendship was not founded on any harmonious accord of character; few friendships are. They were born next door to each other, and no other girls of their own age happened to be near neighbors. The youthful heart runs over so perpetually, that it needs another into which to pour its ever-flowing stream. Impelled by this necessity, they often shared each other’s sleeping apartments, and talked late into the night. They could not have told, the next day, what they had talked about. Their conversation was a continuous movement of hilarious nothings, with a running accompaniment of laughter. It was like the froth of whip-syllabub, of which the rustic took a spoonful into his mouth, and finding it gone without leaving a taste behind, he searched the carpet for it. The girls, however, never looked after the silly bubbles of their bubbling syllables. Harriet thought Jane excessively funny, and such an appreciative audience was stimulus sufficient to keep her friend’s tongue in motion.

“O Hatty, the moon’s up, and it’s as light as a cork!” exclaimed Jane, springing out of bed in the summer’s night, and looking out of the window.

“What a droll creature you are!” replied Hatty; and they laughed more heartily than they would have done over one of Dr. Holmes’s wittiest sayings.

When merriment subsided into a more serious mood, each gave her opinion whether Harry Blake, the young lawyer, or Frank May, the young store-keeper, had the handsomest eyes. Jane said, there was a report that the young lawyer was engaged to somebody before he came to their village; but Harriet said she didn’t believe it, because he pressed her hand when they came home from the County Ball, and he whispered something, too; but she didn’t know whether it would be fair to tell of it. Then came the entreaty, “Do tell”; and she told. And with various similar confidings, they at last fell asleep.

Thus life flowed on, like a sunny, babbling brook, with these girls of sixteen summers. Fond as they were of recreation, they were capable, in the New England sense of the term, and accomplished a great deal of work. It was generally agreed that Harriet made the best butter and Jane the best bread that the village produced. Thrifty fathers said to their sons, that whoever obtained one of those girls for a wife would be a lucky fellow. Harriet refused several offers, and the rejected beaux revenged themselves by saying, she was fishing for the lawyer, in hopes of being the wife of a judge, or a member of Congress. There was less gossip about Jane’s love affairs. Nobody was surprised when the banns were published between her and Frank May. She had always maintained that his eyes were handsomer than the lawyer’s. It was easy enough for anybody to read her heart. Soon after Jane’s marriage with the young store-keeper Harriet went to visit an uncle in New York. There she attracted the attention of a prosperous merchant, nearly as old as her father, and came home to busy herself with preparations for a wedding. Jane expressed surprise, in view of certain confidences with regard to the young lawyer; but Harriet replied: “Mr. Gray is a very good sort of man, and really seems to be very much in love with me. And you know, Jenny, it must be a long time before Harry Blake can earn enough to support a wife handsomely.”

A few weeks afterward, they had their parting interview. They kissed and shed tears, and exchanged lockets with braids of hair. Jane’s voice was choked, as she said: “O Hatty, it seems so hard that we should be separated! I thought to be sure we should always be neighbors.”

And Harriet wiped her eyes, and tried to answer cheerfully: “You must come and see me, dear Jenny. It isn’t such a great way to New York, after all.”

The next day Jane attended the wedding in her own simple bridal dress of white muslin; and the last she saw of Harriet was the waving of her white handkerchief from a genteel carriage, drawn by two shining black horses. It was the first link that had been broken in the chain of her quiet life; and the separation of these first links startles the youthful mind with a sort of painful surprise, such as an infant feels waking from sleep to be frightened by a strange face bending over its cradle. She said to her husband: “I didn’t feel at all as I always imagined I should feel at Hatty’s wedding. It was so unexpected to have her go off with that stranger! But I suppose she is the best judge of what is for her own happiness.”

The void left by this separation was soon filled by new pleasures and duties. A little boy and girl came. Then her husband was seized with a disease of the spine, which totally unfitted him for business. Jane had acquired considerable skill in mantua-making, which now proved a valuable assistance in the support of her family. The neighboring farmers said, “Young Mrs. May has a hard row to hoe.” But her life was a mingled cup, which she had no wish to exchange for any other. Care and fatigue were sweetened by the tenderness and patience of her household mate, and brightened by the gambols of children, who clung to her with confiding love. When people expressed sympathy with her hard lot, she answered, cheerfully: “I am happier than I was when I was a girl. It is a happiness that I feel deeper down in my heart.” This feeling was expressed in her face also. The innocent blue eyes became motherly and thoughtful in their tenderness, but still a smile lay sleeping there. Her husband said she was handsomer than when he first loved her; and so all thought who appreciated beauty of expression above fairness of skin.

During the first year of her residence in New York, Harriet wrote every few weeks; but the intervals between her letters lengthened, and the apology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties, making calls, and attending to mantua-makers. To Jane, who was constantly working to nurse and support her dear ones, they seemed like letters in a foreign language, of which we can study out the meaning, but in which it is impossible for us to think. She felt herself more really separated from the friend of her girlhood than she could have been by visible mountains. They were not only living in different worlds, but the ways of each world did not interest the other. The correspondence finally ceased altogether, and years passed without any communication.

The circle of Jane’s duties enlarged. Her husband’s parents became feeble in health; they needed the presence of children, and could also assist their invalid son by receiving him into their house. So Frank May and his wife removed to their home, in a country village of Massachusetts. Her parents, unwilling to relinquish the light of her presence, removed with them. There was, of course, great increase of care, to which was added the necessity for vigilant economy; but the energy of the young matron grew with the demands upon it. Her husband’s mother was a little unreasonable at times, but it was obvious that she considered her son very fortunate in his wife; and Jane thankfully accepted her somewhat reluctant affection. If a neighbor alluded to her numerous cares, she replied cheerfully: “Yes, it is true that I have a good deal on my shoulders; but somehow it never seems very heavy. The fact is,” she added, smiling, “there’s great satisfaction in feeling one’s self of so much importance. There are my husband, my two children, my two fathers, and my two mothers, all telling me that they couldn’t get along without me; and I think that’s blessing enough for one poor woman. Nobody can tell, until they try it, what a satisfaction there is in making old folks comfortable. They cling so to those that take good care of them, that, I declare, I find it does me about as much good as it did to tend upon my babies.” Blessed woman! she carried sunshine within her, and so external circumstances could not darken her life.

The external pressure increased as years passed on. Her husband, her parents, her son, departed from her, one after another. Still she smiled through her tears, and said: “God has been very merciful to me. It was such a comfort to be able to tend upon them to the last, and to have them die blessing me!” The daughter married and removed to Illinois. The heart of the bereaved mother yearned to follow her; but her husband’s parents were very infirm, and she had become necessary to their comfort. When she gave the farewell kiss to her child, she said: “There is no one to take good care of the old folks if I leave them. I will stay and close their eyes, and then, if it be God’s will, I will come to you.”

Two years afterward, the old father died, but his wife survived him several years. When the estates of both fathers were settled, there remained for the two widowed women a small house, an acre of land, and a thousand dollars in the bank. There they lived alone. The rooms that had been so full of voices were silent now. Only, as Jane moved about, “on household cares intent,” she was often heard singing the tune her dear Frank used to sing under the apple-tree by her window, in their old courting days:—

“The moon was shining silver bright.

No cloud the eye could view;

Her lover’s step, in silent night,

Well pleased, the damsel knew.”

Sometimes the blue eyes moistened as she sang, but, ere the tears fell, tender memories would modulate themselves into the tune of “Auld lang syne.” And sometimes the old mother, who sat knitting in the sunshine, would say: “Sing that again, Jenny. How my old man used to love to hear you sing it! Don’t you remember he used to say you sung like a thrush?” Jenny would smile, and say, “Yes, mother,” and sing it over again. Then, tenderly adapting herself to the old woman’s memories, she would strike into “John Anderson, my Jo,” to which her aged companion would listen with an expression of serene satisfaction. It was indeed a pleasure to listen; for Jenny’s sweet voice remained unbroken by years; its tones were as silvery as her hair. Time, the old crow, had traversed her face and left his footprints there; and the ploughshare of successive sorrows had cut deep lines into the once smooth surface; but the beauty of the soul illumined her faded countenance, as moonlight softens and glorifies ruins. When she carefully arranged the pillows of the easy-chair, the aged mother, ere she settled down for her afternoon’s nap, would often look up gratefully, and say, “Your eyes are just as good as a baby’s.” It was a pleasant sound to the dutiful daughter’s ears, and made her forget the querulous complaints in which her infirm companion sometimes indulged.

The time came when this duty was finished also; and Mrs. Frank May found herself all alone in the house, whither she had carried her sunshine thirty years before. She wrote to her daughter that, as soon as she could sell or let her little homestead, she would start for Illinois. She busied herself to hasten the necessary arrangements; for her lonely heart was longing for her only child, whose face she had not seen for seven years. One afternoon, as she sat by the window adding up accounts, her plans for the journey to meet her daughter gradually melted into loving reminiscences of her childhood, till she seemed to see again the little smiling face that had looked to her the most beautiful in all the world, and to hear again the little pattering feet that once made sweetest music in her ears. As she sat thus in reverie at the open window, the setting sun brightened the broad meadows, crowned the distant hill-tops with glory, and threw a ribbon of gold across the wall of her humble little room. The breath of lilacs floated in, and with it came memories of how her little children used to come in with their arms full of spring-blossoms, filling every mug and pitcher they could find. The current of her thoughts was interrupted by the sound of a wagon. It stopped before her house. A stranger with two little children! Who could it be? She opened the door. The stranger, taking off his hat and bowing respectfully, said, “Are you Mrs. Frank May?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Well, then,” rejoined he, “if you please, I’ll walk in, for I’ve got some news to tell you. But first I’ll bring in the children, for the little things have been riding all day, and are pretty tired.”

“Certainly, sir, bring them in and let them rest, and I will give them a cup of milk,” replied the kindly matron.

A little boy and girl were lifted from the wagon and led in. Mrs. May made an exclamation of joyful surprise. The very vision she had had in her mind a few minutes previous stood before her bodily! She took the little girl in her arms and covered her face with kisses. “Why, bless your little soul!” she exclaimed; “how much you look like my daughter Jenny!”

“My name ith Jenny,” lisped the little one.

“Why, you see, ma’am—” stammered the stranger; he paused, in an embarrassed way, and smoothed the nap of his hat with his sleeve. “You see, ma’am—” he resumed; then, breaking down again, he suddenly seized the boy by the hand, led him up to her, and said, “There, Robin! that’s your good old granny, you’ve heard so much about.”

With a look of astonishment, Mrs. May said to him: “And where is my daughter, sir? Surely these little children wouldn’t come so far without their mother.”

The man again began to say, “You see, ma’am—” but his heart came up and choked his voice with a great sob. The old mother understood its meaning. She encircled the two children with her arms, and drew them closely to her side. After a brief silence, she asked, in a subdued voice, “When did she die?”

Her calmness reassured the stranger, and with a steady voice he replied: “You see, ma’am, your daughter and her husband have been neighbors of mine ever since they went to Illinois. There’s been an epidemic fever raging among us, and they both died of it. The last words your daughter said were, ‘Carry the children to my good mother.’ I’ve been wanting to come and see my old father, who lives about three miles from here, so I brought them along with me. It’s sorrowful news for you, ma’am, and I meant to have sort of prepared you for it; but somehow I lost my presence of mind, and forgot what I was going to say. But I’m glad to see you so sustained under it, ma’am.”

“I thank God that these are left,” she replied; and she kissed the little faces that were upturned to hers with an expression that seemed to say they thought they should like their grandmother.

“I’m so glad you’re helped to take it so,” rejoined the stranger. “Your daughter always told me you was a woman that went straight ahead and did your duty, trusting the Lord to bring you through.”

“I am forgetting my duty now,” she replied. “You must be hungry and tired. If you’ll drive to Neighbor Harrington’s barn, he will take good care of your horse, and I will prepare your supper.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am; but I must jog on to my old father’s, to take supper with him.”

Some boxes containing the clothing of the children and their mother were brought in; and, having deposited them, the stranger departed amid thanks and benedictions.

Mrs. Harrington had seen the wagon stop at Mrs. May’s door, and go off without the children. Being of an inquiring mind, she straightway put on her cape-bonnet, and went to see about it. She found her worthy neighbor pinning towels round the children’s necks, preparatory to their supper of brown bread and molasses, which they were in a great hurry to eat.

“Why who on earth have you got here!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington.

“They are my daughter’s children,” replied Mrs. May. “Bless their little souls! if I’d have known they were coming, I’d have had some turnovers ready for them.”

“I guess you’ll find they’ll make turnovers enough,” replied Mrs. Harrington smiling. “That boy looks to me like a born rogue. But where’s your daughter? I didn’t see any woman in the wagon.”

“The Lord has taken her to himself,” replied Mrs. May, in quivering tones.

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington, raising both hands. “Bless me! if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come right in upon you so sudden.”

They sat down and began to talk over the particulars which the stranger had related. Meanwhile, the children, in hungry haste, were daubing their chins and fingers with molasses. The little four-year-old Jenny was the first to pause. Drawing a long breath, expressive of great satisfaction, she lisped out, “O Bubby! larthiz top on bread! what can be gooder?”

Robin, who was two years her senior, and felt as if he were as much as ten, gave a great shout of laughter, and called out, “O Granny! you don’t know how funny Sissy talks.”

Grandmother went with a wet towel to wipe their hands and faces, and when she heard what the little Tot had said, she could not help smiling, notwithstanding the heaviness of her heart. As for Neighbor Harrington, she laughed outright.

“You see they are just as well satisfied as they would have been with a dozen turnovers,” said she. “But this is a sad blow for you, Neighbor May; coming, too, just at the time when you were taking so much comfort in the thoughts of going to see your daughter; and it will be a pretty heavy load for a woman of your years to bring up these orphans.”

“O, it’s wonderful how the dispensations of Providence are softened for us poor weak mortals,” replied Mrs. May. “Only think what a mercy it is that I have these treasures left? Why, she looks so much like her dear mother, that I seem to have my own little Jenny right over again; and I can’t seem to realize that it isn’t so. You see, Neighbor Harrington, that softens the blow wonderfully. As for bringing up the children, I have faith that the Lord will strengthen those who trust in him.”

“That’s just like you,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “You always talk in that way. You always seem to think that what happens is the best that could happen. You’re pretty much like this little one here. If you don’t get tarts and turnovers, you smack your lips and say, ‘Lasses top on bread! what can be gooder?’”

The neighbors bade each other a smiling good-night. When Mrs. Harrington returned home, she told her husband the mournful news, and added, “Mrs. May don’t seem to feel it so much as I should think she would.” Yet the good grandmother dropped many tears on the pillow where those little orphans slept; and kneeling by their bedside, she prayed long and fervently for support and guidance in rearing the precious souls thus committed to her charge.

She had long been unused to children; and they did, as Neighbor Harrington had predicted, make plenty of turnovers in the house. Robin had remarkable gifts in that line. Endless were his variations of mischief. Sometimes the stillness of the premises was suddenly disturbed by a tremendous fluttering and cackling, caused by his efforts to catch the cockerel. The next thing, there was the cat squalling and hissing, because he was pulling her backward by the tail. Then he was seized with a desire to explore the pig’s sleeping apartment, and by that process let him out into the garden, and had the capital fun of chasing him over flowers and vegetables. Once when the pig upset little Sissy in his rounds, he had to lie down and roll in the mud himself, with loud explosions of laughter. Quiet little Jenny liked to make gardens by sticking flowers in the sand, but it particularly pleased him to send them all flying into the air, at the point of his boot. When the leaves were gay with autumn tints, she would bring her apron full and sit at grandmother’s feet weaving garlands for the mantel-piece; and it was Master Robin’s delight to pull them to pieces, and toss them hither and yon. It was wonderful how patiently the good grandmother put up with his roguish pranks. “O Robin, dear, don’t behave so,” she would say. “Be a good boy. Come! I want to see how fast you grow. Take off your boots, and Jenny will take off hers, and stand even, and then we’ll see which is the tallest.”

“O, I’m ever so much taller. I’m almost a man,” responded Robin, kicking off his boots.

Honest little Jenny stood squarely and demurely while grandmother compared their heights. But roguish Robin raised himself as much as possible. To hide his mirth, he darted out of doors as soon as it was over, calling Jenny after him. Then he gave her a poke, that toppled her half over, and said, with a chuckle, “Sissy, I cheated grandmother. I stood tiptoe. But don’t you tell!”

But wild as Robin was, he dearly loved his grandmother, and she loved him better than anything else, excepting little Jenny. When Neighbor Harrington said, “I should think that boy would wear your life out,” she answered, with a smile: “I don’t know what I should do without the dear little creatures. I always liked to be called by my Christian name, because it sounds more hearty. There’s nobody to call me Jenny now. The little ones call me granny, and the neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. But I have a little Jenny, and every time I hear her name called, it makes me feel as if I was young again. But what I like best is to hear her tuning up her little songs. The little darling sings like a robin.”

“Then she sings like me,” exclaimed her ubiquitous brother, who had climbed up to the open window, holding on by the sill. “I can whistle most any tune; can’t I?”

“Yes, dear, you whistle like a quail,” replied his grandmother.

Satisfied with this share of praise, down he dropped, and the next minute they saw him rushing down the road, in full chase after a passing dog. Mrs. May laughed, as she said: “It seems as if he was in twenty places at once. But he’s a good boy. There’s nothing the matter with him, only he’s so full of fun that it will run over all the time. He’ll grow steadier, by and by. He brought in a basket of chips to-day without upsetting them; and he never made out to do that before. He’s as bright as a steel button; and if I am only enabled to guide him right, he will make such a man as my dear husband would have been proud to own for a grandson. I used to think it was impossible to love anything better than I loved my little ones; but I declare I think a grandmother takes more comfort in her grandchildren than she did in her own children.”

“Well, you do beat all,” replied Mrs. Harrington. “You’ve had about as much affliction as any woman I know; but you never seem to think you’ve had any trouble. I told my husband I reckoned you would admit it was a tough job to bring up that boy, at your age; but it seems you don’t.”

“Why the fact is,” rejoined Mrs. May, “the troubles of this life come so mixed up with blessings, that we are willing to endure one for the sake of having the other; and then our afflictions do us so much good, that I reckon they are blessings, too.”

“I suppose they are,” replied Mrs. Harrington, “though they don’t always seem so. But I came in to tell you that we are going to Mount Nobscot for huckleberries to-morrow; and if you and the children would like to go, there’s room enough in our big wagon.”

“Thank you heartily,” replied Mrs. May. “It will be a charming frolic for the little folks. But pray don’t tell them anything about it to-night; if you do, Robin won’t sleep a wink, or let anybody else sleep.”

The sun rose clear, and the landscape, recently washed by copious showers, looked clean and fresh. The children were in ecstasies at the idea of going to the hill behind which they had so often seen the sun go down. But so confused were their ideas of space, that, while Jenny inquired whether Nobscot was as far off as Illinois, Robin asked, every five minutes, whether they had got there. When they were lifted from the wagon, they eagerly ran forward, and Robin’s voice was soon heard shouting, “O Granny! here’s lots o’ berries!” They went to picking green, red, and black ones with all zeal, while grandmother proceeded to fill her basket. When Mrs. Harrington came, she said, “O, don’t stop to pick here. We shall find them twice as thick farther up the hill.”

“I’ll make sure of these,” replied Mrs. May. “I’m of the old woman’s mind, who said she always took her comfort in this world as she went along, for fear it wouldn’t be here when she came back.”

“You’re a funny old soul,” rejoined Neighbor Harrington. “How young you look to-day!”

In fact, the morning air, the pleasant drive, the joyous little ones, and the novelty of going from home, so renovated the old lady, that her spirits rose to the temperature of youth, her color heightened, and her step was more elastic than usual.

When they had filled their baskets, they sat under the trees, and opened the boxes of luncheon. The children did their full share toward making them empty. When Robin could eat no more, he followed Joe Harrington into a neighboring field to examine some cows that were grazing. The women took out their knitting, and little Jenny sat at their feet, making hills of moss, while she sang about

A kitty with soft white fur,

Whose only talk was a pleasant purr.

The grandmother hummed the same tune, but in tones too low to drown the voice of her darling. Looking round on the broad panorama of hills, meadows, and cornfields, dotted with farm-houses, her soul was filled with the spirit of summer, and she began to sing, in tones wonderfully clear and strong for her years,

“Among the trees, when humming-bees

At buds and flowers were hanging,”

when Robin scrambled up the hill, calling out, “Sing something funny, Granny! Sing that song about me!” He made a motion to scatter Jenny’s mosses with his foot; but his grandmother said, “If you want me to sing to you, you must keep quiet.” He stretched himself full length before her, and throwing his feet up, gazed in her face while she sang:

“Robin was a rovin’ boy,

Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;

Robin was a rovin’ boy,

Rantin’ rovin’ Robin.

“He’ll have misfortunes great and sma’

But ay a heart aboon them a’;

He’ll be a credit till us a’;

We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.”

“That means me!” he said, with an exultant air; and, turning a somerset, he rolled down the hill, from the bottom of which they heard him whistling the tune.

Altogether, they had a very pleasant day among the trees and bushes. It brought back very vividly to Mrs. May’s mind similar ramblings with Hatty Brown in the fields of Maine. As they walked slowly toward their wagon, she was looking dreamily down the long vista of her life, at the entrance of which she seemed to see a vision of her handsome friend Hatty pelting her with flowers in girlish glee. The children ran on, while older members of the party lingered to arrange the baskets. Presently Jenny came running back, and said, “Granny, there’s a carriage down there; and a lady asked me my name, and said I was a pretty little girl.”

“Pretty is that pretty does,” replied the grandmother. “That means it is pretty to be good.” Then, turning to Mrs. Harrington, she asked, “Whose carriage is that?”

She answered, “It passed us last Sunday, when we were going to meeting, and husband said it belonged to Mr. Jones, that New York gentleman who bought the Simmes estate, you know. I guess that old lady is Mrs. Gray, his wife’s mother.”

“Mrs. who?” exclaimed her companion, in a very excited tone.

“They say her name is Gray,” replied Mrs. Harrington; “but what is the matter with you? You’re all of a tremble.”

Without answering, Mrs. May hurried forward with a degree of agility that surprised them all. She paused in front of an old lady very handsomely dressed in silver-gray silk. She looked at the thin, sharp features, the dull black eyes, and the wrinkled forehead. It was so unlike the charming vision she had seen throwing flowers in the far-off vista of memory! She asked herself, “Can it be she?” Then, with a suppressed, half-embarrassed eagerness, she asked, “Are you the Mrs. Gray who used to be Hatty Brown?”

“That was formerly my name,” replied the lady, with dignified politeness.

She threw her arms round her neck, nothing doubting, and exclaimed: “O Hatty! dear Hatty! How glad I am to see you! I’ve been thinking of you a deal to-day.”

The old lady received the embrace passively, and, readjusting her tumbled cape, replied, “I think I’ve seen your face somewhere, ma’am, but I don’t remember where.”

“What! don’t you know me? Your old friend, Jenny White, who married Frank May?”

“O yes, I remember. But you’ve changed a good deal since I used to know you. Has your health been good since I saw you, Mrs. May?”

This response chilled her friend’s heart like an east wind upon spring flowers. In a confused way, she stammered out, “I’ve been very well, thank you; and I hope you have enjoyed the same blessing. But I must go and see to the children now. I thought to be sure you’d know me. Good by.”

“Good by, ma’am,” responded the old lady in gray.

The carriage was gone when Mrs. Harrington and her party entered the big wagon to return home. Mrs. May, having made a brief explanation of her proceedings, became unusually silent. It was a lovely afternoon, but she did not comment on the beauty of the landscape, as she had done in the morning. She was kind and pleasant, but her gayety had vanished. The thought revolved through her mind: “Could it be my shabby gown? Hatty always thought a deal of dress.” But the suspicion seemed to her mean, and she strove to drive it away.

“Meeting that old acquaintance seems to make you down-hearted,” remarked Mrs. Harrington; “and that’s something new for you.”

“I was disappointed that she didn’t know me,” replied Mrs. May; “but when I reflect, it seems very natural. I doubt whether I should have known her, if you hadn’t told me her name. I’m glad it didn’t happen in the morning; for it might have clouded my day a little. I’ve had a beautiful time.”

“Whatever comes, you are always thankful it wasn’t something worse,” rejoined Mrs. Harrington. “Little Jenny is going to be just like you. She’ll never be pining after other people’s pies and cakes. Whatever she has, she’ll call it ‘Lasses top on bread! What can be gooder?’ Won’t you, Sissy?”

“Bless the dear little soul! she’s fast asleep!” said her grandmother. She placed the pretty little head in her lap, and tenderly stroked back the silky curls. The slight cloud soon floated away from her serene soul, and she began to sing. “Away with melancholy,” and “Life let us cherish.” As the wagon rolled toward home, people who happened to be at their doors or windows said: “That is old Mrs. Frank May. What a clear, sweet voice she has for a woman of her years!”

Mrs. May looked in her glass that night longer than she had done for years. “I am changed,” said she to herself. “No wonder Hatty didn’t know me!” She took from the till of her trunk a locket containing a braid of glossy black hair. She gazed at it awhile, and then took off her spectacles, to wipe from them the moisture of her tears. “And this is my first meeting with Hatty since we exchanged lockets!” murmured she. “If we had foreseen it then, could we have believed it?”

The question whether or not it was a duty to call on Mrs. Gray disturbed her mind considerably. Mrs. Harrington settled it for her off-hand. “She did not ask you to come,” said she; “and if she’s a mind to set herself up, let her take the comfort of it. Folks say she’s a dreadful stiff, prim old body; rigid Orthodox; sure that everybody who don’t think just as she does will go to the bad place.”

These words were not uttered with evil intention, but their effect was to increase the sense of separation. On the other hand, influences were not wanting to prejudice Mrs. Gray against her former friend, whose sudden appearance and enthusiastic proceedings had disconcerted her precise habits. When the Sewing-Society met at her son-in-law’s house, she happened to be seated next to an austere woman, of whom she inquired, “What sort of person is Mrs. Frank May?”

“I don’t know her,” was the reply. “She goes to the Unitarian meeting, and I have no acquaintance with people of that society. I should judge she was rather light-minded. When I’ve passed by her house, I’ve often heard her singing songs; and I should think psalms and hymns would be more suitable to her time of life. I rode by there once on Sunday, when I was coming home from a funeral, and she was singing something that sounded too lively for a psalm-tune. Miss Crosby told me she heard her say that heathens were just as likely to be saved as Christians.”

“O, I am sorry to hear that,” replied Mrs. Gray. “She and I were brought up under the Rev. Mr. Peat’s preaching, and he was sound Orthodox.”

“I didn’t know she was an acquaintance of yours,” rejoined the austere lady, “or I wouldn’t have called her light-minded. I never heard anything against her, only what she said about the heathen.”

Mrs. May, having revolved the subject in her straightforward mind, came to the conclusion that Neighbor Harrington’s advice was not in conformity with the spirit of kindness. “Since Mrs. Gray is a stranger in town, it is my place to call first,” said she. “I will perform my duty, and then she can do as she pleases about returning the visit.” So she arrayed herself in the best she had, placed the children in the care of Mrs. Harrington, and went forth on her mission of politeness. The large mirror, the chairs covered with green damask, and the paper touched here and there with gold, that shimmered in the rays of the setting sun, formed a striking contrast to her own humble home. Perhaps this unaccustomed feeling imparted a degree of constraint to her manner when her old friend entered the room, in ample folds of shining gray silk, and a rich lace cap with pearl-colored ribbons. Mrs. Gray remarked to her that she bore her age remarkably well; to which Mrs. May replied that folks told her so, and she supposed it was because she generally had pretty good health. It did not occur to her to return the compliment, for it would not have been true. Jenny was now better-looking than Hatty. Much of this difference might be attributed to her more perfect health, but still more it was owing to the fact that, all their lives long, one had lived to be ministered unto, and the other to minister. The interview was necessarily a formal one. Mrs. Gray inquired about old acquaintances in Maine, but her visitor had been so long absent from that part of the country that she had little or nothing to tell, and all she had struggled through meanwhile would have been difficult for the New York lady to realize. The remark about her light-mindedness was constantly present in Mrs. Gray’s mind, and at parting she thus expressed the anxiety it occasioned: “You say you have a great deal to do, Mrs. May, and indeed you must have, with all the care of those little children; but I hope you find time to think about the salvation of your soul.”

Her visitor replied, with characteristic simplicity: “I don’t know whether I do, in the sense I suppose you mean. I have thought a great deal about what is right and what is wrong, and I have prayed for light to see what was my duty, and for strength to perform it. But the fact is, I have had so much to do for others, that I haven’t had much time to think about myself, in any way.” Then, with some passing remark about the vines at the door, the old ladies bade each other good-by.

When Mrs. Harrington was informed of the conversation, she said, in her blunt way: “It was a great piece of impertinence in her. She’d better take care of her own soul than trouble herself about yours.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Mrs. May. “I believe she meant it kindly. She don’t seem to me to be stern or proud. But we’ve been doing and thinking such very different things, for a great many years, that she don’t know what to say to me, and I am just as much puzzled how to get at her. I reckon all these things will come right in another world.”

During the summer she often saw Mr. Jones’s carriage pass her house, and many a time, when the weather was fine, she placed fresh flowers on the mantel-piece, in a pretty vase which Hatty had given her for a bridal present, thinking to herself that Mrs. Gray would be likely to ride out, and might give her a call. When autumn came, she filled the vase with grasses and bright berries, which she gathered in her ramblings with the children. Once, the carriage passed her as she was walking home, with a little one in either hand, and Mrs. Gray looked out and bowed. At last a man came with a barrel of apples and a message. The purport of it was, that she had gone with her daughter’s family to New York for the winter; that she intended to have called on Mrs. May, but had been poorly and made no visits.

Winter passed rapidly. The children attended school constantly; it was grandmother’s business to help them about their lessons, to knit them warm socks and mittens, to mend their clothes, and fill their little dinner-kettle with provisions. The minister, the deacon, and the neighbors in general felt interested to help the worthy woman along in the task she had undertaken. Many times a week she repeated, “How my path is strewn with blessings!”

With the lilacs the New York family came back to their summer residence. The tidings soon spread abroad that Mrs. Gray was failing fast, and was seldom strong enough to ride out. Mrs. May recalled to mind certain goodies, of which Hatty used to be particularly fond in their old girlish times. The next day she started from home with a basket nicely covered with a white damask napkin, on the top of which lay a large bunch of Lilies of the Valley, imbedded in one of their broad green leaves. She found Mrs. Gray bolstered up in her easy-chair, looking quite thin and pale. “I know you have everything you want, and better than I can bring,” said she; “but I remembered you used to like these goodies when we were girls, and I wanted to bring you something, so I brought these.” She laid the flowers in the thin hand, and uncovered her basket.

The invalid looked up in her face with a smile, and said, “Thank you, Jenny; this is very kind of you.”

“God bless you for calling me Jenny!” exclaimed her warm-hearted old friend, with a gush of tears. “There is nobody left to call me Jenny now. The children call me Granny, and the neighbors call me old Mrs. Frank May. O, it sounds like old times, Hatty.”

The ice gave way under the touch of that one sunbeam. Mrs. Gray and Mrs. May vanished from their conversation, and only Hatty and Jenny remained. For several months they met every day, and warmed their old hearts with youthful memories. Once only, a little of the former restraint returned for a few minutes. Mrs. Gray betrayed what was in her mind, by saying: “I suppose, Jenny, you know I haven’t any property. My husband failed before he died, and I am dependent on my daughter.”

“I never inquired about your property, and I don’t care anything about it,” replied Mrs. May, rather bruskly, and with a slight flush on her cheeks; but, immediately subsiding into a gentler tone, she added, “I’m very glad, Hatty, that you have a daughter who is able to make you so comfortable.”

Thenceforth the invalid accepted her disinterested services without question or doubt. True to her old habits of being ministered unto, she made large demands on her friend’s time and strength, apparently unconscious how much inconvenience it must occasion to an old person charged with the whole care of two orphan children. Mrs. May carefully concealed any impediments in the way, and, by help of Mrs. Harrington, was always ready to attend upon her old friend. She was often called upon to sing “Auld Lang Syne”; and sometimes, when the invalid felt stronger than common, she would join in with her feeble, cracked voice. Jenny sat looking at Hatty’s withered face, and dim black eyes, and she often felt a choking in her throat, while they sang together:

“We twa hae ran about the braes,

And pu’d the gowans fine.”

More frequently they sang the psalm-tunes they used to sing when both sat in the singing-seats with Frank May and Harry Blake. They seldom parted without Jenny’s reading a chapter of the New Testament in a soft, serious tone. One day Mrs. Gray said: “I have a confession to make, Jenny. I was a little prejudiced against you, and thought I shouldn’t care to renew our acquaintance. Somebody told me you was light-minded, and that you told Miss Crosby the heathen were just as likely to be saved as Christians. But you seem to put your trust in God, Jenny; and it is a great comfort to me to hear you read and sing.”

“I have a confession to make, too,” replied Mrs. May. “They told me you was a very stern and bigoted Orthodox; and you know, when we were girls, Hatty, I never took much to folks that were too strict to brew a Saturday, for fear the beer would work a Sunday.”

“Ah, we were giddy young things in those days,” replied her friend, with much solemnity in her manner.

“Well, Hatty dear, I’m a sort of an old girl now,” replied Mrs. May. “I am disposed to be merciful toward the short-comings of my fellow-creatures, and I cannot believe our Heavenly Father will be less so. I remember Miss Crosby talked to me about the heathen one day, and I thought she talked hard. I don’t recollect what I said to her; but after I arrived at years of reflection I came to some conclusions different from the views we were brought up in. You know my dear Frank was an invalid many years. He was always in the house, and we read to each other, and talked over what we read. In that way, I got the best part of the education I have after I was married. Among other things he read to me some translations from what the Hindoos believe in as their Bible; and some of the writings of Rammohun Roy; and we both came to the conclusion that some who were called heathens might be nearer to God than many professing Christians. You know, Hatty, that Jesus walked and talked with his disciples, and their hearts were stirred, but they didn’t know him. Now it seems to me that the spirit of Jesus may walk and talk with good pious Hindoos and Mahometans, and may stir their hearts, though they don’t know him.”

“You may be right,” rejoined the invalid. “God’s ways are above our ways. It’s a pity friends should be set against one another on account of what they believe, or don’t believe. Pray for me, Jenny, and I will pray for you.”

It was the latter part of October, when Mrs. May carried a garland of bright autumn leaves to pin up opposite her friend’s bed. “It is beautiful,” said the invalid; “but the colors are not so brilliant as those you and I used to gather in Maine. O, how the woods glowed there, at this season! I wish I could see them again.”

Mrs. May smiled, and answered, “Perhaps you will, dear.”

Her friend looked in her face, with an earnest, questioning glance; but she only said, “Sing our old favorite tune in bygone days, Jenny.” She seated herself by the bedside and sang:

“The Lord my shepherd is,

I shall be well supplied;

Since he is mine, and I am his,

What can I want beside?”

Perceiving that the invalid grew drowsy, she continued to hum in a low, lulling tone. When she was fast asleep, she rose up, and, after gazing tenderly upon her, crept softly out of the room. She never looked in those old dim eyes again. The next morning they told her the spirit had departed from its frail tenement.

Some clothing and a few keepsakes were transmitted to Mrs. May soon after, in compliance with the expressed wish of her departed friend. Among them was the locket containing a braid of her own youthful hair. It was the very color of little Jenny’s, only the glossy brown was a shade darker. She placed the two lockets side by side, and wiped the moisture from her spectacles as she gazed upon them. Then she wrapped them together, and wrote on them, with a trembling hand, “The hair of Grandmother and her old friend Hatty; for my darling little Jenny.”

When Neighbor Harrington came in to examine the articles that had been sent, the old lady said to her: “There is nobody left now to call me Jenny. But here is my precious little Jenny. She’ll never forsake her old granny; will she, darling?” The child snuggled fondly to her side, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the wrinkled face, which was to her the dearest face in the whole world.

She never did desert her good old friend. She declined marrying during Mrs. May’s lifetime, and waited upon her tenderly to the last. Robin, who proved a bright scholar, went to the West to teach school, with the view of earning money to buy a farm, where grandmother should be the queen. He wrote her many loving letters, and sent portions of his earnings to her and Sissy; but she departed this life before his earthly paradise was made ready for her. The last tune she sang was St. Martin’s; and the last words she spoke were: “How many blessings I have received! Thank the Lord for all his mercies!”

THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER,
WHO DIED AGED EIGHTY.

O softly wave the silver hair

From off that aged brow!

That crown of glory, worn so long,

A fitting crown is now.

Fold reverently the weary hands,

That toiled so long and well,

And, while your tears of sorrow fall,

Let sweet thanksgivings swell.

That life-work, stretching o’er long years,

A varied web has been;

With silver strands by sorrow wrought,

And sunny gleams between.

These silver hairs stole softly on,

Like flakes of falling snow,

That wrap the green earth lovingly,

When autumn breezes blow.

Each silver hair, each wrinkle there,

Records some good deed done;

Some flower she cast along the way,

Some spark from love’s bright sun.

How bright she always made her home!

It seemed as if the floor

Was always flecked with spots of sun,

And barred with brightness o’er.

The very falling of her step

Made music as she went;

A loving song was on her lip,

The song of full content.

And now, in later years, her word

Has been a blessed thing

In many a home, where glad she saw

Her children’s children spring.

Her widowed life has happy been,

With brightness born of heaven;

So pearl and gold in drapery fold

The sunset couch at even.

O gently fold the weary hands

That toiled so long and well;

The spirit rose to angel bands,

When off earth’s mantle fell.

She’s safe within her Father’s house,

Where many mansions be;

O pray that thus such rest may come,

Dear heart, to thee and me!

Anonymous.

THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

From all I have narrated concerning my good and evil days, some may infer that I have been on the whole a favorite of fortune; that I may very well be philosophic, and maintain a rosy good-humor, since, with the exception of a few self-torments of the fancy, I have seldom or never experienced a misfortune. But indeed I have met with what men usually style great misfortunes, or evils, though I never so named them. Like every mortal, I have had my share of what is called human misery. The weight of a sudden load has sometimes, for a moment, staggered me and pressed me down, as is the case with others. But, with renewed buoyancy of spirit, I have soon risen again, and borne the burden allotted to me, without discontent. Nay, more than this, though some may shake their heads incredulously, it is a fact that worldly suffering has often not been disagreeable to me. It has weaned me from placing my trust in transitory things. It has shown me the degree of strength and self-reliance I could retain, even at that period of life when the passions reign. I am fully convinced that there is no evil in the world but sin. Nothing but consciousness of guilt spins a dark thread, which reaches through the web of all our days, even unto the grave. God is not the author of calamity, but only man, by his weakness, his over-estimate of pompous vanities, and the selfish nurture of his appetites. He weeps like a child because he cannot have his own way, and even at seventy years of age is not yet a man. He bewails himself, because God does not mind him. Yet every outward misfortune is in truth as worthy a gift of God as outward success.

In common with others, I have met with ingratitude from many; but it did not disquiet me; because what I had done for them was not done for thanks. Friends have deceived me, but it did not make me angry with them; for I saw that I had only deceived myself with regard to them. I have endured misapprehension and persecution with composure, being aware of the unavoidable diversity of opinions, and of the passions thereby excited. I have borne the crosses of poverty without a murmur; for experience had taught me that outward poverty often brings inward wealth. I have lost a moderate property, which I had acquired by toil, but such losses did not imbitter me for a single day; they only taught me to work and spare. I have been the happy father of happy children. Twelve sons and one daughter I have counted; and I have had to sit, with a bleeding heart, at the death-bed of four of those sons. As they drew their last breath, I felt that divine sorrow which transforms the inner man. My spirit rested on the Father of the universe, and it was well with me. My dead ones were not parted from me. Those who remained behind drew the more closely to one another, while eagerly looking toward those who had gone before them to other mansions of the Great Father. It was our custom to think of the deceased as still living in the midst of us. We were wont to talk about their little adventures, their amusing sallies, and the noble traits of their characters. Everything noteworthy concerning them, as well as what related to the living members of the family, was recorded by the children in a chronicle they kept in the form of a newspaper, and was thus preserved from oblivion. Death is something festal, great, like all the manifestations of God here below. The death of my children hallowed me; it lifted me more and more out of the shows of earth, into the divine. It purified my thoughts and feelings. I wept, as a child of the dust must do; but in spirit I was calm and cheerful, because I knew to whom I and mine belonged.

At the beginning of old age, I could indeed call myself a happy man. On my seventieth birthday, I felt as if I were standing on a mountain height, at whose foot the ocean of eternity was audibly rushing; while behind me, life, with its deserts and flower-gardens, its sunny days and its stormy days, spread out green, wild, and beautiful. Formerly, when I read or heard of the joylessness of age, I was filled with sadness; but I now wondered that it presented so much that was agreeable. The more the world diminished and grew dark, the less I felt the loss of it; for the dawn of the next world grew ever clearer and clearer.

Thus rejoicing in God, and with him, I advance into the winter of life, beyond which no spring awaits me on this planet. The twilight of my existence on earth is shining round me; but the world floats therein in a rosy light, more beautiful than the dawn of life. Others may look back with homesickness to the lost paradise of childhood. That paradise was never mine. I wandered about, an orphan, unloved, and forsaken of all but God. I thank him for this allotment; for it taught me to build my paradise within. The solemn evening is at hand, and it is welcome. I repent not that I have lived. Others, in their autumn, can survey and count up their collected harvests. This I cannot. I have scattered seed, but whither the wind has carried it I know not. The good-will alone was mine. God’s hand decided concerning the success of my labor. Many an unproductive seed I have sown; but I do not, on that account, complain either of myself or of Heaven. Fortune has lavished on me no golden treasures; but contented with what my industry has acquired,

and my economy has preserved, I enjoy that
noble independence at which I have
always aimed; and out of the little
I possess I have been sometimes
able to afford assistance
to others who were
less fortunate.

An healthy old fellow, that is not a fool, is the happiest creature living. It is at that time of life only men enjoy their faculties with pleasure and satisfaction. It is then we have nothing to manage, as the phrase is; we speak the downright truth; and whether the rest of the world will give us the privilege, or not, we have so little to ask of them, that we can take it.—Steele.

THE OLD MAN DREAMS.
By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

O for one hour of youthful joy!

Give me back my twentieth spring!

I’d rather laugh a bright-haired boy,

Than reign a gray-beard king!

Off with the wrinkled spoils of age!

Away with learning’s crown!

Tear out life’s wisdom-written page,

And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream

From boyhood’s fount of fame!

Give me one giddy, reeling dream

Of life all love and flame!

My listening angel heard the prayer,

And, calmly smiling, said,

“If I but touch thy silvered hair,

Thy hasty wish hath sped.

“But is there nothing in thy track

To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back

To find the wished-for day?”

Ah, truest soul of womankind!

Without thee, what were life?

One bliss I cannot leave behind:

I’ll take—my—precious—wife!

The angel took a sapphire pen

And wrote in rainbow dew,

“The man would be a boy again,

And be a husband too!”

“And is there nothing yet unsaid,

Before the change appears?

Remember, all their gifts have fled

With those dissolving years!”

Why, yes; for memory would recall

My fond paternal joys;

I could not bear to leave them all:

I’ll take—my—girl—and—boys!

The smiling angel dropped his pen,—

“Why, this will never do;

The man would be a boy again,

And be a father too!”

And so I laughed,—my laughter woke

The household with its noise,—

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

A RUSSIAN LADY
OF THE OLD SCHOOL.[A]

[A] From Life in the Interior of Russia.

Give me your hand, dear reader, and accompany me on a visit to one of my neighbors. The day is fine, the blue sky of the month of May is a beautiful object; the smooth young leaves of the white hazel-trees are as brilliant as if they had been newly washed. The large, smooth fields are covered with that fine young grass which the sheep love so much to crop; on the right and left, on the long slopes of the hills, the rye-grass is waving, and over its smooth swell glide the shadows of the little flying clouds. In the distance, the woods are resplendent with the brilliant light; the ponds glitter, and the villages are bathed in yellow rays. Innumerable larks fly about, singing and beating their wings in unison; making their appearance first in one spot, then in another, they rise lightly from the fields, and again are as quickly lost in them. The rooks station themselves on the highway, looking up fixedly at the sun; they move aside to let you pass, or foolishly fly forward ten paces on the edge of the road. On the slopes beyond a ravine a laborer is at his plough, and a piebald foal, with its miserable little tail, dishevelled mane, and long, frail legs, runs after its mother, and we may just hear its plaintive neigh. We enter a birch wood, and a fresh and strong odor fills the air; we reach the gate of an enclosure; the coachman descends, and, while the horses snort, and the right wheeler plays with his tail, and rubs his jaw against the pole, he opens the creaking gate, and, reseating himself, we roll on.

A village now presents itself, and, after passing five or six farm-yards, we turn to the right, and descending rapidly, are soon driving along an embankment. Beyond a pond of moderate extent, and behind apple-trees and clustering lilacs, an old wooden house is now visible, painted red, and possessing two chimneys. We drive along a paling on the left, and pass through a large open carriage entrance, saluted by the husky barkings of three old worn-out dogs. My groom gallantly salutes an old housekeeper, who is peeping out of the pantry through a foot and a half window. We draw up before the door near the veranda of a gloomy little house. It is the abode of Tatiana Borissovna. But there she is herself, saluting us from the window. “Good morning, good morning, Madame.”

Tatiana Borissovna is a woman of about fifty; she has large bluish-gray eyes, slightly prominent, a nose inclined to flatness, cherry cheeks, and a double chin. Her face beams with sweetness and goodness. She once had a husband, but so long ago that no one has any recollection of it. She scarcely ever leaves her little property, keeps up but a slight connection with her neighbors, seldom invites them to her house, and likes none but young people. Her father was a poor gentleman, and she consequently received a very imperfect education; in other words, she does not speak French, and has never seen even Moscow, not to speak of St. Petersburg. But, spite of these little defects, she manages all her affairs in her country life so simply and wisely; she has so large a way of thinking, of feeling, and comprehending things; she is so little accessible to the thousand weaknesses which are generally found in our good provincial ladies,—poor things,—that, in truth, one cannot help admiring her. Only consider that she lives all the year round within the precincts of her own village and estate, quite isolated, and that she remains a stranger to all the tittle-tattle of the locality; does not rail, slander, take offence, or choke and fret with curiosity; that envy, jealousy, aversion, and restlessness of body and mind, are all unknown to her; only consider this, and grant that she is a marvel. Every day after eleven o’clock she is dressed in a gown of iron-gray taffeta, and a white cap with long pure ribbons; she likes to eat, and make others do the same; but she eats moderately, and lets others follow her example. Preserves, fruits, pickled meats, are all intrusted to the housekeeper. With what, then, does she occupy herself, and how does she fill up her day? She reads, perhaps, you will say. No, she does not read; and, to speak the truth, people must think of others than Tatiana Borissovna when they print a book. In winter, if she is alone, our Tatiana Borissovna sits near a window, and quietly knits a stocking; in summer she goes and comes in her garden, where she plants and waters flowers, picks the caterpillars from her shrubs, puts props under her bushes, and sprinkles sand over the garden paths; then she can amuse herself for hours with the feathered race in her court-yard, with her kittens and pigeons, all of which she feeds herself. She occupies herself very little with housekeeping. If, unexpectedly, any good young neighbor chances to look in, she is then as happy as possible; she establishes herself upon her divan, regales her visitor with tea, hears all he has to say, sometimes gives him little friendly pats on the cheek, laughs heartily at his sallies, and speaks little herself. Are you annoyed, or the victim of some misfortune? She consoles you with the most sympathizing words, and opens up various means of relief, all full of good sense. How many there are, who, after confiding to her their family secrets and their private griefs, have found themselves so relieved by unburdening their minds, that they have bathed her hands with their tears. In general, she sits right before her guest, her head leaning lightly on her left hand, looking in his face with so much kindly interest, smiling with such friendly good-nature, that one can scarcely keep himself from saying, “Ah! what an excellent woman you are, Tatiana Borissovna. Come, I will conceal from

you nothing that weighs upon my heart.” In her
delightful, nice little rooms, one is so pleased
with himself and everybody, that he is
unwilling to leave them; in this
little heaven, the weather
is always at “set
fair.”

The happiness of life may be greatly increased by small courtesies in which there is no parade, whose voice is too still to tease, and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks, and little kind acts of attention, giving others the preference in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking, sitting, or standing.—Sterne.

THE OLD MAN’S SONG.
TO HIS WIFE.

Oh, don’t be sorrowful, darling!

Now don’t be sorrowful, pray!

For, taking the year together, my dear,

There isn’t more night than day.

’Tis rainy weather, my darling;

Time’s waves they heavily run;

But, taking the year together, my dear,

There isn’t more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling;

Our heads they are growing gray;

But, taking the year all round, my dear,

You will always find the May.

We’ve had our May, my darling,

And our roses, long ago;

And the time of the year is coming, my dear,

For the long dark nights and the snow.

But God is God, my darling,

Of night, as well as of day;

And we feel and know that we can go

Wherever He leads the way.

Ay, God of the night, my darling;

Of the night of death so grim.

The gate that from life leads out, good wife,

Is the gate that leads to Him.

Anonymous.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.
THE BIRTHDAY OF ——.

Now be the hours that yet remain to thee

Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love,

That inextinguishably dwell within

Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light

To the most desolate moments, like the glow

Of a bright fireside in the wildest day;

And kindly words and offices of good

Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on,

Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates

Of a more genial season, and thy path

Be lost to human eye among the bowers

And living fountains of a brighter land.

Wm. C. Bryant.

A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR GRANDFATHER.
By CHARLES DICKENS.

Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half-way through.

He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child, “What do you here?” And the child said, “I am always at play. Come and play with me!”

So, he played with that child the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds, and saw so many butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home—where was that, they wondered!—whistling and howling, and driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But when it snowed, that was the best of all; for they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was, and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.

They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books, all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants, and genii and fairies, and blue-beards and bean-stalks, and riches, and caverns and forests, and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.

But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, “What do you here?” And the boy said, “I am always learning. Come and learn with me.”

So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I could tell,—or he either; for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoners’ base, hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays, too, and Twelfth cakes, and parties where they danced all night till midnight, and real theatres, where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear friends, and so many of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another all their lives through.

Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost the boy, as he had lost the child, and, after calling on him in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So, he said to the young man, “What do you here?” And the young man said, “I am always in love. Come and love with me.”

So, he went away with that young man, and presently they came to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen,—just like Fanny in the corner there,—and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny’s, and she laughed and colored just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly,—just as Somebody I won’t mention, the first time he came here, did with Fanny. Well! He was teased sometimes,—just as Somebody used to be by Fanny; and they quarrelled sometimes,—just as Somebody and Fanny used to quarrel; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and never were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another, and pretending not to, and were engaged at Christmas time, and sat close to one another by the fire, and were going to be married very soon,—all exactly like Somebody I won’t mention and Fanny!

But the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did, went on upon his journey. So, he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, “What are you doing here?” And his answer was, “I am always busy. Come and be busy with me!”

So, then he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in summer; some of the little trees that had come out earliest were even turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with him, who was his wife: and they had children, who were with them too. So, they all went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard.

Sometimes they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they would hear a very little distant voice crying, “Father, father, I am another child! Stop for me!” And presently they would see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it; and then they all went on together.

Sometimes they came to several avenues at once; and then they all stood still, and one of the children said, “Father, I am going to sea”; and another said, “Father, I am going to India”; and another, “Father, I am going to seek my fortune where I can”; and another, “Father, I am going to heaven!” So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to heaven, rose into the golden air and vanished.

Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at the gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the trees, where the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to come on. He saw, too, that his hair was turning gray. But they never could rest long, for they had their journey to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always busy.

At last, there had been so many partings that there were no children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow; and now brown; and the leaves, even of the forest-trees, began to fall.

So they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were pressing forward on their journey without looking down it, when the lady stopped.

“My husband,” said the lady, “I am called.”

They listened, and they heard a voice a long way down the avenue say, “Mother, mother!”

It was the voice of the first child who had said, “I am going to heaven!” and the father said, “I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray not yet.”

But the voice cried, “Mother, mother!” without minding him, though his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face.

Then, the mother, who was already drawn into the shade of the dark avenue, and moving away with her arms still around his neck, kissed him and said, “My dearest, I am summoned, and I go!” And she was gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together.

And they went on and on together, until they came to very near the end of the wood; so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them through the trees.

Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He called and called, but there was no reply, and when he passed out of the wood and saw the peaceful sun going down upon a wide purple prospect, he came to an old man sitting upon a fallen tree. So, he said to the old man, “What do you here?” And the old man said, with a calm smile, “I am always remembering. Come and remember with me.”

So, the traveller sat down by the side of the old man, face to face with the serene sunset; and all his friends came softly back and stood around him. The beautiful child, the handsome boy, the young man in love, the father, mother, and children: every one of them was there, and he had lost nothing. So, he loved them all, and was kind and forbearing with them all, and was always pleased to watch them all, and they all honored and loved him. And I think the traveller must be yourself, dear grandfather, because it is what you do to us, and what we do to you.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
By ROBERT BURNS.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,

Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent[B];

But now your head’s turned bald, John,

Your locks are like the snow;

But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;

And mony a canty[C] day, John,

We’ve had wi’ ane anither:

Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we’ll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo.

[B] Smooth.

[C] Merry.

When thoughtful people sing these admirable verses, they are apt to long to hear of something beyond the foot of the hill. This want has been extremely well supplied by Mr. Charles Gould, of New York, in the following verse:—

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we have slept thegither

The sleep that a’ maun sleep, John,

We’ll wake wi’ ane anither:

And in that better warld, John,

Nae sorrow shall we know;

Nor fear we e’er shall part again,

John Anderson, my jo.