To watch the coming choir of birds,
And note the lengthening twilight hours,
The miracles of buds and flowers,
And tender shows too sweet for words.
But you who hear the throstle sing,
And greet the lark's high ecstasies,
May learn to care no more for these,
And spurn each weaker voice and wing.
I will not think it--home is home;
And much as other skies may do,
Ours will not reach its sweetest blue,
Nor May seem perfect, till you come.
March 1, 1871.
CHAPTER XVII.
Gabrielle and her Embroidery—Life in Pennsylvania continued—Sugar-making—Horrible Incident—A Woman devoured by Wolves—A Domestic Picture—Evening Readings—The Library of Mr. Greeley's Father—Mr. Greeley's Mother intellectually considered—Her Education—Mr. Greeley's Eldest Sister—She teaches School at the Age of Twelve.
July 25.
"It is some time, auntie," said Gabrielle, from the sofa, "since you have told us any stories. Now I wish that this evening, while I am working upon my pin-cushion, you would relate some more episodes of your Pennsylvania life;" and she opened her work box, and took out a little roll of canvas, upon which she was busy delineating in pale yellow wool a stiff little canary, with a surprising eye, and an impossible tail.
"I have forgotten what I have already related, dear," replied mamma; "you must tell me where to take up my story."