Heigh-ho! How lonely I feel to-night! Every human soul is—must be—a hermit, yet there might be something nearer companionship than I have found for mine as yet. No one knows me. My real self—Ha! old fellow, I like you better than I did; let us be good friends.
Sept. 30th. A golden sunrise. How much one loses under a false idea of its being a luxury to sleep in the morning! Reclining under Farmer Puddingstone's elm, and looking upon the glassy pond, in which the glowing sky mirrored itself, my soul was fired with poetic inspiration. On the blank page of a letter, I wrote:
"How holy the calm, in the stillness of morn,"—
and threw down my paper, being suddenly quenched by self-ridicule, as I was debating whether to write "To Ethelind" over the top. Returning that way after my ramble, I found the following conclusion pinned to the tree by a jackknife:—
"How holy the calm, in the stillness of morn,—
When to call 'em to breakfast Josh toots on the horn,
The ducks gives a quack, and the caow gives a moo,
And the childen chimes in with their plaintive boo-hoo.
"How holy the calm, in the stillness of neune,
When the pot is a singin its silvery teune,—
Its soft, woolly teune, jest like Aribi's Darter,
While the tea-kettle plays up the simperny arter.
"How holy the calm, in the stillness of night,
When the moon, like a punkin, looks yaller and bright;
While the aowls an' the katydids, screeching like time,
Jest brings me up close to the eend o' my rhyme."
And underneath was added, as if in scorn of my fruitless endeavor:—
"I wrote that are right off, as fast as you could shell corn. S.P."
I suppose it is by way of thanks for my having driven the pigs from the garden, that I find a great bunch of dahlias adorning my mantelpiece. A brown earthen pitcher! And in the middle of the dahlias, a magnificent sunflower! It must be my aunt's doing, and its very homeliness pleases me, just as I love her homely sincerity of affection. Who arranges the glasses in the parlor? Etty, I would not fear to affirm, from the asters and golden-rod, cheek by jole with petunias and carnations. I wonder if she would not like some of the clematis I saw twining about a dead tree by the pond. It is more beautiful in its present state than when it was in flower. Etty loves wild flowers because she is one herself, and loves to hide here in her native nook, where no eye (I might except my own) gives her more than a casual glance.—