"Delightfully new. Never rode in an ox cart before in my life; hardly ever saw one, in fact. We are quite out of the race and struggle and uneasiness of the world, don't you see? There comes down a feeling of repose upon one, softly, as Longfellow says—
'As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.'
Only I should say in this case it was from the wing of an angel."
"Mrs. Barclay, you are too poetical for an ox cart," said Lois, laughing. "If we began to be poetical, I am afraid the repose would be troubled."
"'Twont du Poetry no harm to go in an ox cart," remarked here the ox driver.
"I agree with you, sir," said Mrs. Barclay. "Poetry would not be Poetry if she could not ride anywhere. But why should she trouble repose. Lois?"
"Yes," added Mr. Lenox; "I was about to ask that question. I thought poetry was always soothing. Or that the ladies at least think so."
"I like it well enough," said Lois, "but I think it is apt to be melancholy. Except in hymns."
"Except hymns!" said Mrs. Lenox. "I thought hymns were always sad. They deal so much with death and the grave."
"And the resurrection!" said Lois.