Lx.x.xI. SOWING AND REAPING.

Adelaide Anne Procter (b. 1825, d. 1864) was the daughter of Bryan Waller Procter (better known as "Barry Cornwall "), a celebrated English poet, living in London. Miss Procter's first volume, "Legends and Lyrics,"

appeared in 1858, and met with great success; it was republished in this country. A second series, under the same name, was published in 1860; and in 1862 both series were republished with additional poems, and an introduction by Charles d.i.c.kens. In 1861 Miss Procter edited "Victoria Regia," a collection of poetical pieces, to which she contributed; and in 1862 "A Chaplet of Verses," composed of her own poems, was published.

Besides these volumes, she contributed largely to various magazines and periodicals.

1. Sow with a generous hand; Pause not for toil and pain; Weary not through the heat of summer, Weary not through the cold spring rain; But wait till the autumn comes For the sheaves of golden grain.

2. Scatter the seed, and fear not, A table will be spread; What matter if you are too weary To eat your hard-earned bread; Sow, while the earth is broken, For the hungry must be fed.

3. Sow;--while the seeds are lying In the warm earth's bosom deep, And your warm tears fall upon it-- They will stir in their quiet sleep, And the green blades rise the quicker, Perchance, for the tears you weep.

4. Then sow;--for the hours are fleeting, And the seed must fall to-day; And care not what hand shall reap it, Or if you shall have pa.s.sed away Before the waving cornfields Shall gladden the sunny day.

5. Sow;--and look onward, upward, Where the starry light appears,-- Where, in spite of the coward's doubting, Or your own heart's trembling fears, You shall reap in joy the harvest You have sown to-day in tears.

Lx.x.xII. TAKING COMFORT.

1. For the last few days, the fine weather has led me away from books and papers, and the close air of dwellings, into the open fields, and under the soft, warm sunshine, and the softer light of a full moon. The loveliest season of the whole year--that transient but delightful interval between the storms of the "wild equinox, with all their wet," and the dark, short, dismal days which precede the rigor of winter--is now with us. The sun rises through a soft and hazy atmosphere; the light mist clouds melt gradually before him; and his noontide light rests warm and clear on still woods, tranquil waters, and gra.s.ses green with the late autumnal rains.

2. One fine morning, not long ago, I strolled down the Merrimac, on the Tewksbury sh.o.r.e. I know of no walk in the vicinity of Lowell so inviting as that along the margin of the river, for nearly a mile from the village of Belvidere. The path winds, green and flower-skirted, among beeches and oaks, through whose boughs you catch glimpses of waters sparkling and dashing below. Rocks, huge and picturesque, jut out into the stream, affording beautiful views of the river and the distant city.

3. Half fatigued with my walk, I threw myself down upon a rocky slope of the bank, where the panorama of earth, sky, and water lay clear and distinct about me. Far above, silent and dim as a picture, was the city, with its huge mill masonry, confused chimney tops, and church spires; near it rose the height of Belvidere, with its deserted burial place and neglected gravestones sharply defined on its bleak, bare summit against the sky; before me the river went dashing down its rugged channel, sending up its everlasting murmur; above me the birch tree hung its ta.s.sels; and the last wild flowers of autumn profusely fringed the rocky rim of the water.

4. Right opposite, the Dracut woods stretched upwards from the sh.o.r.e, beautiful with the hues of frost, glowing with tints richer and deeper than those which Claude or Poussin mingled, as if the rainbows of a summer shower had fallen among them. At a little distance to the right, a group of cattle stood mid-leg deep in the river; and a troop of children, bright-eyed and mirthful, were casting pebbles at them from a projecting shelf of rock. Over all a warm but softened sunshine melted down from a slumberous autumnal sky.

5. My reverie was disagreeably broken. A low, grunting sound, half b.e.s.t.i.a.l, half human, attracted my attention. I was not alone. Close beside me, half hidden by a tuft of bushes, lay a human being, stretched out at full length, with his face literally rooted into the gravel. A little boy, five or six years of age, clean and healthful, with his fair brown locks and blue eyes, stood on the bank above, gazing down upon him with an expression of childhood's simple and unaffected pity.

6. "What ails you?" asked the boy at length. "What makes you lie there?"

The prostrate groveler struggled halfway up, exhibiting the bloated and filthy countenance of a drunkard. He made two or three efforts to get upon his feet, lost his balance, and tumbled forward upon his face.

"What are you doing there?" inquired the boy.

"I'm taking comfort," he muttered, with his mouth in the dirt.

7. Taking his comfort! There he lay,--squalid and loathsome under the bright heaven,--an imbruted man. The holy harmonies of Nature, the sounds of gushing waters, the rustle of the leaves above him, the wild flowers, the frost bloom of the woods,--what were they to him? Insensible, deaf, and blind, in the stupor of a living death, he lay there, literally realizing that most bitterly significant eastern malediction, "May you eat dirt."

--Whittier.

DEFINITIONS.--l. Tran'sient (pro. tran'shent), of short duration.

E'qui-nox, the time of year when the days and nights are of equal length, i.e., about September 23d or March 21st. Rigor, severity. 2.

Pic-tur-esque' (pro. pik-tur-esk'), fitted to form a pleasing picture. 3.

Pan-o-ra'ma, a complete or entire view in every direction. 5. Rev'er-ie, an irregular train of thoughts occurring in meditation. Bes'tial (pro.

bes'chal), brutish. Lit'er-al-ly, according to the first and natural meaning of words. 6. Pros'trate, lying at length. Grov'el-er, a base wretch. Bloat'ed, puffed out. 7. Im-brut'ed, reduced to brutality.

Har'mo-ny, the fitness of parts to each other in any combination of things. Re'al-iz-ing, making one's own in experience. Mal-e-dic'tion, a curse.

NOTES.--The localities named in this selection are in the vicinity of Haverhill, Ma.s.s., where the old Whittier homestead is situated.

4. Claude Lorrain (b. 1600, d. 1682), whose proper name was Claude Gelee, was a celebrated landscape painter, born in Champagne, Vosges, France.

Nicolas Poussin (b. 1594, d. 1665) was a French painter, who became one of the most remarkable artists of his age. His fame chiefly arises from his historical and mythological paintings.

Lx.x.xIII. CALLING THE ROLL.

1. "CORPORAL GREEN!" the orderly cried; "Here!" was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of a soldier standing near; And "here!" was the word the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!" and a silence fell; This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear man saw him fall, Killed or wounded he could not tell.

2. There they stood in the fading light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the slope was splashed with blood, And down in the corn, where the poppies grew, Were redder stains than the poppies knew; And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

3. For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire; And their lifeblood went to color the tide.

"Herbert Cline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them Herbert Cline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

4. "Ezra Kerr!" and a voice said "here!"

"Hiram Kerr!" but no man replied: They were brothers, these two; the sad wind sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane!"--then a soldier spoke: "Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said, "When our ensign was shot; I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

5. "Close to the roadside his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him to drink; He murmured his mother's name, I think; And death came with it and closed his eyes."

'T was a victory--yes; but it cost us dear; For that company's roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered "here!"

--Shepherd.

Lx.x.xIV. TURTLE SOUP.

Charles Frederick Briggs (b. 1804, d. 1877) was born on the island of Nantucket. When quite young, however, he became a resident of New York City. In 1845, in conjunction with Edgar A. Poe, he began the publication of the "Broadway Journal;" he was also connected with the "New York Times," and the "Evening Mirror;" also as editor from 1853 to 1856 with "Putnam's Magazine." Mr. Briggs wrote a few novels, some poetry, and numerous little humorous tales and sketches. The following selection is from "Working a Pa.s.sage; or, Life on a Liner," one of his best stories.

1. Among the luxuries which the captain had provided for himself and pa.s.sengers was a fine green turtle, which was not likely to suffer from exposure to salt water, so it was reserved until all the pigs, and sheep, and poultry had been eaten. A few days before we arrived, it was determined to kill the turtle and have a feast the next day.

2. Our cabin gentlemen had been long enough deprived of fresh meats to make them cast lickerish glances towards their hard-skinned friend, and there was a great smacking of lips the day before he was killed. As I walked aft occasionally, I heard them congratulating themselves on their prospective turtle soup and forcemeat b.a.l.l.s; and one of them, to heighten the luxury of the feast, ate nothing but a dry biscuit for the twenty-four hours preceding, that he might be prepared to devour his full share of the unctuous compound.

3. It was to be a gala day with them; and though it was not champagne day, that falling on Sat.u.r.day and this on Friday, they agreed to have champagne a day in advance, that nothing should be wanting to give a finish to their turtle. It happened to be a rougher day than usual when the turtle was cooked, but they had become too well used to the motion of the ship to mind that.

4. It happened to be my turn at the wheel the hour before dinner, and I had the tantalizing misery of hearing them laughing and talking about their turtle, while I was hungry from want of dry bread and salt meat. I had resolutely kept my thoughts from the cabin during all the pa.s.sage but once, and now I found my ideas cl.u.s.tering round a tureen of turtle in spite of all my philosophy.

5. Confound them, if they had gone out of my hearing with their exulting smacks, I should not have envied their soup, but their hungry glee so excited my imagination that I could see nothing through the glazing of the binnacle but a white plate with a slice of lemon on the rim, a loaf of delicate bread, a silver spoon, a napkin, two or three wine gla.s.ses of different hues and shapes, and a water goblet cl.u.s.tering round it, and a stream of black, thick, and fragrant turtle pouring into the plate.

6. By and by it was four bells: they dined at three. And all the gentlemen, with the captain at their head, darted below into the cabin, where their mirth increased when they caught sight of the soup plates.

"Hurry with the soup, steward," roared the captain. "Coming, sir," replied the steward. In a few moments the cook opened the door of his galley, and out came the delicious steam of the turtle.

7. Then came the steward with a large covered tureen in his hand, towards the cabin gangway. I forgot the ship for a moment in looking at this precious cargo, the wheel slipped from my hands, the ship broached to with a sudden jerk; the steward had got only one foot upon the stairs, when this unexpected motion threw him off his balance, and down he went by the run, the tureen slipped from his hands, and part of its contents flew into the lee scuppers, and the balance followed him in his fall.

8. I laughed outright. I enjoyed the turtle a thousand times more than I should have done if I had eaten the whole of it. But I was forced to restrain my mirth, for the next moment the steward ran upon deck, followed by the captain, in a furious rage, threatening if he caught him to throw him overboard. Not a spoonful of the soup had been left in the coppers, for the steward had taken it all away at once to keep it warm. In about an hour afterwards the pa.s.sengers came upon deck, looking more sober than I had seen them since we left Liverpool. They had dined upon cold ham.