"I am glad to hear you say so, ma'am, I am sure," said Deborah, "for when I have to keep going from one thing to another, my head spins around like a top, and I can't do a single thing as it ought to be done. How Pedy Breck got along so smooth and slick with the work, I don't know, nor never shall. I can make as good light bread as ever was—I won't give up to anybody—but when I made the last, my mind was all stirred up with a puddin'-stick as 'twere, and I couldn't remember whether I put any yeast into it or not."
From this time all went well. Deborah, in her slow way, proved to be a treasure. She told Emily that, "Give her time, nobody could beat her at a boiled dish, apple-dumplings, or a loaf of bread," and the result proved that her words were no vain boast.
"I have concluded to follow your advice," said Emily, the next time she saw her mother, "and look into the kitchen occasionally."
"I am glad to hear it, and I have no doubt that you will enjoy yourself much better for it."
"I am certain that I shall—I do already. You can't imagine what queer, fretful-looking lines were beginning to show themselves on George's brow. He would have looked old enough for a grandfather in a few years, if I had gone on trying to realize the hope he expressed, that I would abstain from the performance of all household tasks. And I should have looked quite as old as he, I suspect, for I believe that the consciousness of neglected duties is one of the heaviest burdens which can be borne."
TO AN ABSENT WIFE.
'TIS Morn:—the sea breeze seems to bring
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing;
Bright flowers, to me all strange and new,
Are glittering in the early dew,
And perfumes rise from every grove,
As incense to the clouds that move
Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear,—
But I am sad—thou are not here!
'Tis Noon:—a calm, unbroken sleep
Is on the blue waves of the deep;
A soft haze, like a fairy dream,
Is floating over wood and stream;
And many a broad magnolia flower,
Within its shadowy woodland bower,
Is gleaming like a lovely star,—
But I am sad—thou art afar!
'Tis Eve:—on earth the sunset skies
Are painting their own Eden dyes;
The stars come down and trembling glow,
Like blossoms in the waves below;
And like an unseen sprite, the breeze
Seems lingering midst these orange trees,
Breathing its music round the spot,—
But I am sad—I see thee not!
'Tis Midnight:—with a soothing spell
The far-off tones of ocean swell—
Soft as a mother's cadence mild,
Low bending o'er her sleeping child;
And on each wandering breeze are heard
The rich notes of the mocking bird,
In many a wild and wondrous lay,—
But I am sad—thou art away!