“Well, first, dear Bessie, a smiling face Is dearer far than the rarest beauty; And my mother, fretful, lame, and old, Will require a daughter’s loving duty. You will see to her flannels, drops, and tea, And talk with her of lungs and liver: Give her your cheerful service, dear— The Lord he loveth a cheerful giver.
“You will see that my breakfast is piping hot, And rub the clothes to a snowy whiteness; Make golden butter and snowy rolls, And polish things to a shining brightness; Will darn my stockings, and mend my coats, And see that the buttons are sewed on tightly: You will keep things cheerful and neat and sweet, That home’s altar-fires may still burn brightly.
“You will read me at evening the daily news, The tedious winter nights beguiling, And never forget that the sweetest face Is a cheerful face that’s always smiling. In short, you’ll arrange in a general way For a sort of sublunary heaven; For home, dear Bessie, say what we may, Is the highest sphere to a woman given.”
The lark sang out to the bending sky, The bobolink piped in the nodding rushes, And out of the tossing clover-blooms Came the sweet, clear song of the meadow-thrushes. And Bessie, listening, paused a while, Then said, with a sly glance at her neighbor, “But John—do you mean—that is to say, What shall I get for all this labor?
“To be nurse, companion, and servant girl, To make home’s altar-fires burn brightly; To wash and iron and scrub and cook, And always be cheerful, neat, and sprightly; To give up liberty, home, and friends, Nay, even the name of a mother’s giving,— To do all this for one’s board and clothes, Why, the life of an angel isn’t worth living!”
And Bessie gayly went her way Down through the fields of scented clover, But never again since that summer day Has she won a glance from her rustic lover. The lark sings out to the bending sky, The clouds sail on as white as ever; The clovers toss in the summer wind, But Bessie has lost that chance forever.
GRANT’S STRATEGY.
Who had thought, until Grant said it, that the crisis comes in battle when both armies are nearly exhausted, and that usually the one wins which attacks first? When did he ever fail to attack first? Who had thought, until he suggested it, that the trouble with the Potomac army, the pride of the nation, was, that it had not fought its battles through? Who then living has forgotten the utter downfall of hope, the absolute despair throughout the North, as the moan from the Wilderness came rolling up on the southern breeze? Is the task hopeless? Is this last mighty effort only more disastrous than that of McClellan, of Pope, of Burnside, of Hooker? No! listen to the assurance, “I’ll fight it out on this line if it takes all summer.” Every loyal heart in the land is inspired. That telegram to the President was the death-knell of rebellion.