(After Longfellow.)
The morn was dark, the weather low,
The household fed by gaslight show,—
When from the street a shriek arose:
The milkman, bellowing through his nose,
Expluvior!
The butcher came, a walking flood,
Drenching the kitchen where he stood:
“Deucalion is your name, I pray?”
“Moses!” he choked, and slid away.
Expluvior!
The neighbor had a coach and pair
To struggle out and take the air;
Slip-slop, the loose galoshes went;
I watched his paddling with content.
Expluvior!
A wretch came floundering up the ice
(The rain had washed it smooth and nice),
Two ribs stove in above his head,
As, turning inside out, he said,
Expluvior!
No doubt, alas! we often imposed upon the tenderness of this dear mother. She was always absent-minded, and of this quality advantage was sometimes taken. One day, when guests were dining with her, Harry came and asked if he might do something that happened to be against the rules. “No, dear,” said our mother, and went on with the conversation. In a few moments Harry was at her elbow again with the same question, and received the same answer. This was repeated an indefinite number of times; at length our mother awoke suddenly to the absurdity of it, and, turning to the child, said: “Harry, what do you mean by asking me this question over and over again, when I have said ‘no’ each time?” “Because,” was the reply, “Flossy said that if I asked often enough, you might say ‘yes!’”
I am glad to say that our mother did not “say yes” on this occasion. But, on the other hand, Maud was not whipped for taking the cherries, when she needed a whipping sorely. The story is this: it was in the silent days of her babyhood, for Maud did not speak a single word till she was two years and a half old; then she said, one day, “Look at that little dog!” and after that talked as well as any child. But if she did not speak in those baby days, she thought a great deal. One day she thought she wanted some wild cherries from the little tree by the stone-wall, down behind the corn-crib at the Valley. So she took them, such being her disposition. Our mother, coming upon the child thus, forbade her strictly to touch the cherries, showing her at the same time a little switch, and saying: “If you eat any more cherries, I shall have to whip you with this switch!” She went into the house, and forgot the incident. But presently Maud appeared, with a bunch of cherries in one hand and the switch in the other. Fixing her great blue eyes on our mother with earnest meaning, she put the cherries in her mouth, and then held out the switch. Alas! and our mother—did—not—whip her! I mention this merely to show that our mother was (and, indeed, is) mortal. But Maud was the baby, and the prettiest thing in the world, and had a way with her that was very hard to resist.
It was worth while to have measles and things of that sort, not because one had stewed prunes and cream-toast—oh, no!—but because our mother sat by us, and sang “Lord Thomas and Fair Elinor,” or some mystic ballad.
The walks with her are never to be forgotten,—twilight walks round the hill behind the house, with the wonderful sunset deepening over the bay, turning all the world to gold and jewels; or through the Valley itself, the lovely wild glen, with its waterfall and its murmuring stream, and the solemn Norway firs, with their warning fingers. The stream was clear as crystal, its rocky banks fringed with jewel-weed and rushes; the level sward was smooth and green as emerald. By the waterfall stood an old mill, whose black walls looked down on a deep brown pool, into which the foaming cascade fell with a musical, rushing sound. I have described the Valley very fully elsewhere,[2] but cannot resist dwelling on its beauty again in connection with our mother,—who loved so to wander through it, or to sit with her work under the huge ash-tree in the middle, where
