by a draught from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your young life; take it, and may your heart and tongue never be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now! 6. "There, my dear child! put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly gentleman who treads so gingerly over the paving-stones. What! he limps by, without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable offices were meant only for people who have no wine-cellars. 7. "Well, well, sir! no harm done, I hope? Go! draw the cork, tip the decanter; but when your great toe shall set you a roaring, it will be no affair of mine. 8. "This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs, and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away again! Jowler! did your worship ever have the gout?" Hawthorne. LIX. — THE BIRTHDAY OF SPRING. I. YRY Holiday! Holiday! let us be gay, CRYA And share in the rapture of heaven and earth; To welcome the Spring on the day of her birth ; II. Loud carols each rill, as it leaps in its bed; The wind brings us music and balm from the south, The tidings of joy with her many-tongued mouth; III. Hark! hark to the robin! its magical call IV. The love-thrilling wood-birds are wild with delight; Sends a flood of rich melody down from the sky. V. To me the same vernal whisperings breathe, In all that I scent, that I hear, that I meet Without and within me, above and beneath : Every sense is imbued with a prophecy sweet Of the pomp and the pleasantness Earth shall assume When adorned, like a bride, in her flowery bloom. VI. In this transport of nature each feeling takes part; If my joy be withheld I shall burst into tears. EXERCISE. Horace Smith. 1. Let us share in the rapture of heaven and earth. 2. The elements sing Nature's pœan. [Song of rejoicing.] 3. Loud carols each rill as it leaps in its bed. 4. The rapturous lark sends a flood of rich melody down. 5. All the feathery throng taste the spirit of Spring. 6. Earth shall assume pomp and pleasantness. K ATE. Cousin, I have been thinking what you are to do with your pet rose when you go to New York. You know it would be a sad pity to leave it with such a scatter-brain as I am. I love flowers, indeed; that is, I like a regular bouquet, cut off and tied up, to carry to a party; but as to all this tending and fussing, which is needful to keep them growing, I have no gifts in that line. Florence. Make yourself easy as to that, Kate. I have no intention of calling upon your talents; I have an asylum in view for my favorite. Kate. O, then you know just what I was going to say! Mrs. Marshall, I presume, has been speaking to you: she was here yesterday; and I was quite pathetic upon the subject, telling her the loss your favorite would sustain, and so forth; and she said how delighted she would be to have it in her greenhouse, it is in such a fine state now, so full of buds. I told her I knew you would like to give it to her; you are so fond of Mrs. Marshall, you know. Flor. Now, Kate, I am sorry, but I have otherwise engaged it. Kate. Who can it be to? you have so few intimates here? Flor. O, it is only one of my odd fancies! Kate. But do tell me, Florence. Flor. Well, cousin, you know the little pale girl to whom we give sewing? Kate. What little Mary Stephens! how absurd, Florence! This is just another of your motherly, old-maidish ways, dressing dolls for poor children, making bonnets, and knitting socks for all the little dirty babies in the neighborhood. I do believe you have made more calls in those two vile alleys behind our house than ever you have in Chestnut Street, and now- - to crown all -you must give this choice little treasure to a seamstress girl, when one of your most intimate friends in your own class would value it so highly. What in the world can people in their circumstances want with flowers? Flor. Just the same that I do. Have you not noticed that the little girl never comes here without looking wistfully at the opening buds? And don't you remember the other morning she asked me so prettily if I would let her mother come and see it, she was so fond of flowers? Kate. But, Florence, only think of this rare flower standing on a table with ham, eggs, cheese, and flour, and stifled in that close little room where Mrs. Stephens and her daughter manage to wash, iron, and cook. Flor. Well, Kate, and if I were obliged to live in one coarse room, and wash, and iron, and cook, as you say; if I had to spend every moment of my time in toil, with no prospect from my window but a brick wall and dirty lane, such a flower as this would be untold enjoyment to me. Kate. Pshaw, Florence all sentiment! Poor people have no time to be sentimental. Besides, I don't believe it will grow with them; it is a greenhouse flower, and used to delicate living. Flor. O, as to that, a flower never inquires whether its owner is rich or poor; and Mrs. Stephens whatever else she has not has sunshine of as good quality as this that streams through our window. The beautiful things that God makes are his gifts to all alike. You will see that my fair rose will be as well and cheerful in Mrs. Stephens's room as in ours. Kate. Well, after all, how odd! When one gives to poor people, one wants to give them something useful, a bushel of potatoes, a ham, and such things. Flor. Why, certainly potatoes and ham must be supplied; but, having administered to the first and most craving wants, why not add any other little pleasures or gratifications we may have it in our power to bestow? I know there are many of the poor who have fine feeling and a keen sense of the beautiful, which rusts out and dies, because they are too hard pressed to procure it any gratification. Poor Mrs. Stephens, for example, I know she would enjoy birds, and flowers, and music as much as I do. I have seen her eye light up as she looked upon these things in our drawing-room; and yet not one beautiful thing can she command. From necessity, her room, her clothing, - all she has, must be coarse and plain. You should have seen the rapture she and Mary felt when I offered them my rose. Kate. Dear me all this may be true; but I never thought of it before. I never thought that these hardworking people had any ideas of taste! Flor. Then why do you see the geranium or rose SO carefully nursed in the old cracked teapot in the poorest room, or the morning-glory planted in a box, and twined about the window? Do not these show that the human heart yearns for the beautiful in all ranks of life? You remember, Kate, how our washerwoman sat up a whole night, after a hard day's work, to make her first baby a pretty dress to be baptized in. Kate. Yes; and I remember how I laughed at you for making such a tasteful little cap for it. Flor. Well, Katy, I think the look of perfect delight with which the poor mother regarded her baby in its new dress and cap, was something quite worth creating. I do believe she could not have felt more grateful, if I had sent her a barrel of flour. Kate. Well, I never thought before of giving anything to the poor but what they really needed, and I have always been willing to do that when I could without going far out of my way. Flor. But, cousin, if our Heavenly Father gave to us after this mode, we should have only coarse, shapeless piles of provisions lying about the world, instead of all this beautiful variety of trees and fruits and flowers. Kate. Well, well, cousin, I suppose you are right, but have mercy upon my poor head: it is too small to hold so many new ideas all at once; so go on your own way. H. B. Stowe. |