of Theodore Hook, produced as much "happiness for two" as the world
can be expected to give. Philippa is as charming as ever, and in one
respect her character has materially improved. Formerly, Philippa,
partly from good-nature, and partly from a wish to be universally
popular, was very much in the habit of saying things to her friends
that were more pleasant than true; she would tell fourth-rate
poetasters that everybody was in raptures with their genius; she would
assure mothers that their sickly pedantic prodigies were extolled
in every circle; and she would protest to faded spinsters that the
gentlemen declared them to be handsomer than they were a dozen years
ago. Now, however, Philippa, although still kind and courteous, is as
particular in the veracity of her civil speeches as if she had studied
Mrs. Opie's "Illustrations of Lying" for the last five years: and
all are delighted to obtain her praise, because all feel that she is
sincere in bestowing it.
One day her husband found her in tears, and anxiously inquired the
reason of her sorrow.
"It will soon pass away," she said; "but I have just been thinking with
grief and repentance of a very faulty action in my life, although you,
to console me, are in the habit of calling it an amiable weakness. I
allude to my unjustifiable imposition on poor Janet; the present day
causes it to recur most forcibly to my mind--it is the anniversary of
VALENTINE'S DAY!"
THE FOUNTAIN VERY FAR DOWN.
BY VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND.
"I don't believe it," said my cousin Ned, who was passing his college
vacation at our house, and there was a world of unwritten scepticism in
the air with which he dashed down the paper over whose damp columns his
eyes had been travelling for the previous half hour.
"You see, Cousin Nelly," continued Ned, getting up and pacing the long
old-fashioned parlor with quick, nervous strides, "it's all sheer
nonsense to talk about these doors in every human heart. It sounds very
pretty and pathetic in a story, I'll admit; but so do a great many
other things which reason and actual experience entirely repudiate.
There are hearts--alas! that their name should be legion--where 'far
away up' there is no door to be opened, and 'far away down' are no
deeps to be fathomed. Now don't, Cousin Nelly, level another such
rebuking glance at me from those brown eyes, for I have just thought of
a case illustrative of my theory. Don't you remember Miss Stebbins, the
old maid, who lived at the foot of the hill, and how I picked a rose
for you one morning which had climbed over her fence into the road, and
so, of course, became 'public property?' Faugh! I shall never forget
the tones of the virago's voice, or the scowl on her forehead as she
sallied out of the front door and shook her hand at me. A woman who
could refuse a half withered flower to a little child, I wonder that
roses could blossom on her soil! At the 'smiting of the rod,' no waters
could flow out of such a granite heart. In the moral desert of such a
character, no fertilizing stream can make its way."
I did not answer Cousin Ned's earnest, eloquent tones, for just then
there was the low rap of visitors at the parlor door; but I have always
thought there was a good angel in the room while he was speaking, and
that it flew straight to Miss Stebbins, and looking down, down, very
far down in her heart, he saw a fountain there, rank weeds grew all
around it, the seal of years was on its lip, and the dust of time deep
on the seal; but the angel smiled, as it floated upward and murmured,
"I shall return and remove the seal, and the waters will flow."
* * * * *
Stern and grim sat Miss Stebbins at her work, one summer afternoon. The
golden sunshine slept and danced in its play-place in the corner, and
broke into a broad laugh along the ceiling, and a single beam, bolder
than the rest, crept to the hem of Miss Stebbins's gown, and looked up
with a timid, loving smile in her face, such as no human being ever
wore when looking there.
Poor Miss Stebbins! those stern, harsh features only daguerreotyped too
faithfully the desolate, arid heart beneath them; and that heart, with
its dry fountain, was a true type of her life, with the one flower of
human affection which had blossomed many years before along its bleak,
barren highway.
She never seemed to love anybody, unless it was her brother William,
who was a favorite with everybody; but he went to sea, and had never
been heard of since. Sally had always been a stray sheep among the
family; but dark hours, and at last _death_, came upon all the rest,
and so the homestead fell into her hands. Such was the brief verbal
history of Miss Stebbins's life, which I received from Aunt Mary, who
closed it there, in rigid adherence to her favorite maxim, never to
speak evil of her neighbors.
But, that summer afternoon, there came the patter of children's feet
along the gravel-walk which led to Miss Stebbins's front door; and, at
the same moment, the angel with golden-edged wings came down from its
blue-sky home into Miss Stebbins's parlor.
She raised her head and saw them, two weary-looking little children,
with golden hair and blue eyes, standing hand in hand under the little
portico, and then that old termagant scowl darkened her forehead, and
she asked, with a sharp, disagreeable note in her voice, like the raw
breath in the north-east wind--
"Wa-all! I should like to know what you want standing there?"
"Please, ma'am," said the boy, in a timid, entreating voice, which
ought to have found its way straight into any heart, "little sister and
I feel very tired, for we have walked a long way. Will you let us sit
down on the step and rest a little while?"
"No; I can't have children loafing round on my premises," said
Miss Stebbins, with the same vinegar sharpness of tone which had
characterized her preceding reply. Moreover, the sight of any of the
miniature specimens of her race seemed always fated to arouse her
belligerent propensities. "So just take yourselves off; and the
quicker, the better 'twill be for you."
"Don't stay any longer, Willy. I am afraid," whispered the little girl,
with a tremor rippling through her voice, as she pulled significantly
at her brother's coat sleeve.
"Willy! Willy! That was your brother's name; don't you remember?" the
angel bent down and whispered very softly in the harsh woman's ear; and
all the time his hand was gliding down, down in her heart, searching
for that hidden fountain. "You must have been just about that little
girl's age when you and he used to go trudging down into the meadows
together to find sweet flagroot. And you used to keep tight hold of
his hand, just as she does. Oh, how tired you used to get! Don't you
remember that old brown house, where nobody lived but starved rats and
a swarm of wasps, who made their nest there in the summer-time? And you
used to sit down on the old step, which the worms had eaten in so many
places, and rest there. How he loved you! and how careful he was always
to give you the best seat! and, then, he never spoke one cross word
to you, if everybody else did. Now, if you should let those children
sit down and rest, just as you and Willy did on the old brown step,
you could keep a sharp eye on them, to see they didn't get into any
mischief."
The angel must have said all this in a very little time, for the
children had only reached the gravel-walk again, when Miss Stebbins
called out to them; and, this time, that spiteful little note in her
voice was not quite so prominent--
"Here, you may sit right down on that corner a little while; but, mind
you, don't stir; for, if you do, you'll have to budge."
"Little sister," said the boy, in a low tone, after they were seated,
"lay your head here, and try to go to sleep."
The little girl laid her head, with its shower of golden bright curls,
on her brother's breast; but, the next moment, she raised it, saying--
"I can't sleep, brother, I'm so thirsty."
"Don't you remember that day you and Willy went into the woods after
blackberries, and how you lost your way groping in the twilight of the
forest?" again whispered the angel, with his hand feeling all the time
for the fountain. "You found an old lightning-blasted tree, and you sat
down on it, and he put his arm round you just so, and said, 'Try and
go to sleep, little sister.' But you couldn't, you were so thirsty;
for you had walked full three miles. Who knows but what those children
have, too?"
There was a little pause after the angel had said this, and then Miss
Stebbins rose up and went into her pantry, where the shelves were all
of immaculate whiteness, and she could see her face in the brightly
scoured tin. She brought out a white pitcher, and, going into the
garden, filled it at the spring. Returning, she poured some of the cool
contents into a cup which stood on the table, and carried it to the
children; and she really held it to the little girl's lips all the time
she was drinking.
Farther and farther down in the heart of the woman crept the hand of
the angel; nearer and nearer to the fountain it drew.
Miss Stebbins went back to her sewing, but, somehow, her fingers did
not fly as nimbly as usual. The memories of bygone years were rising
out of their mouldy sepulchres; but all freshly they came before her,
with none of the grave's rust and dampness upon them.
"That little boy's eyes, when he thanked you for the water, looked just
as Willy's used to," once more whispered the angel, bending down close
to Miss Stebbins's ear. "And his hair looks like Willy's, too, as he
sits there with that sunbeam brightening its gold, and his arm thrown
so lovingly around his sister's waist. There! did you see how wistfully
he looked up at the grapes, whose purple side are turned towards him
as they hang over the portico? How Willy used to love grapes! And how
sweet your bowls of bread and milk used to taste, after one of your
rambles into the woods! If those children have walked as far as you
did--and don't you see the little boy's coat and the little girl's
faded dress are all covered with dust?--they must be very hungry, as
well as tired and thirsty. Don't you remember that apple-pie you baked
this morning? I never saw a pie done to a finer brown in my life. How
sweet it would taste to those little tired things, if they could only
eat a piece here in the parlor, where the flies and the sun wouldn't
keep tormenting them all the time!"
A moment after, Miss Stebbins had stolen with noiseless step to her
pantry, and, cutting out two generous slices from her apple-pie, she
placed them in saucers, returned to the front door, and said to the
children--
"You may come in here, and sit down on the stools by the fire-place and
eat some pie; but you must mind and not drop any crumbs on the floor."
It was very strange, but that old harsh tone had almost left her voice.
The large, tempting slices were placed in the little hands eagerly
lifted up to receive them; and, at that moment, out from the lip of the
fountain, out from the dust which lay heavy upon its seal, there came
a single drop, and it fell down upon Miss Stebbins's heart. It was the
first which had fallen there for years. Ah, the angel had found the
fountain then!
The softened woman went back to her seat, and the angel did not bend
down and whisper in her ear again; but all the time his hand was busy,
very busy at its work.
"Where is your home, children?" inquired Miss Stebbins, after she had
watched for a while, with a new, pleasant enjoyment, the children, as
they dispatched with hungry avidity their pie.
"Mary and I haven't any home now. We had one once before papa died, a
great way over the sea," answered the boy.
"And where are you going now? and what brought you and your little
sister over the sea?" still farther queried the now interested woman.
"Why, you see, ma'am, just before papa died, he called old Tony to
him--now, Tony was black, and always lived with us--'Tony,' said he,
'I am going to die, and you know I have lost everything, and the
children will be all alone in the world. But, Tony, I had a sister once
that I loved, and she loved me; and, though I haven't seen her for a
great many years, still I know she loves me, if she's living, just as
well as she did when she and I used to go hand in hand through the
apple-orchard to school; and, Tony, when I'm dead and buried, I want
you to sell the furniture, and take the money it brings you and carry
the children back to New England. You'll find her name and the place
she used to live in a paper--which anybody'll read for you--in the
drawer there. And, Tony, when you find her, just take Willy and Mary to
her, and tell her I was their father, and that I sent them to her on my
death-bed, and asked her to be a mother to them for my sake. It'll be
enough, Tony, to tell her that.' And Tony cried real loud, and he said,
'Massa, if I forget one word of what you've said, may God forget me.'
"Well, papa died, and, after he was buried, Tony brought little sister
and me over the waters. But, before we got here, Tony was taken sick
with the fever, and he died a little while after the ship reached the
land and they had carried him on shore. But, just before he died, he
called me to him and put a piece of paper in my hand. 'Don't lose it,
Willy,' he said, 'for poor Tony's going, and you'll have to find the
way to your aunt's all alone. The money's all spent, too, and they
say it's a good hundred miles to the place where she lived. But keep
up a good heart, and ask the folks the way, and for something to eat
when you're hungry; and don't walk too many miles a day, 'cause little
sister ain't strong. Perhaps somebody'll help you on with a ride, or
let you sleep in their house nights. Now don't forget, Willy; and shake
hands the last time with poor Tony.'
"After that, we stayed at the inn till the next day, when they buried
Tony; and, when they asked us what we were going to do, we told them we
were going to our aunt's, for papa had sent us to her, and then they
let us go. When we asked folks the way they told us, though they always
stared, and sometimes shook their heads. We got two rides, and always a
good place to sleep. They said our aunt lived round here; but, we got
so tired walking, we had to stop."
"And what was your father's name?" asked Miss Stebbins, and, somehow,
there was a choking in her throat, and the hand of the angel was placed
on the fountain as she spoke.
"William Stebbins; and our aunt's name was Sally Stebbins. Please,
ma'am, do you know her?"
Off, at that moment, came the seal, and out leaped a fresh, blessed
tide of human affection, and fell down upon the barren heart-soil that
grew fertile in a moment.
"William! my brother William!" cried Miss Stebbins, as she sprang
towards the children with outstretched arms and tears raining fast down
her cheeks. "Oh, for your sake, I will be a mother to them!"
* * * * *
A year had passed away; college vacation had come again, and once
more Cousin Ned was at our house. In the summer gloaming we went to
walk, and our way lay past Miss Stebbins's cottage. As we drew near
the wicket, the sound of merry child-laughter rippled gleefully to
our ears, and a moment after, from behind that very rose-tree so
disagreeably associated with its owner in Cousin Ned's mind, bounded
two golden-haired children.
"Come, Willy! Mary! you have made wreaths of my roses until they are
wellnigh gone. You must gather violets after this."
"_Mirabile dictu!_" ejaculated Cousin Ned. "Is _that_ the woman who
gave me such a blessing a long time ago for plucking a half withered
rose from that very tree?"
"The very same, Cousin Ned," I answered; and then I told him of
the change which had come over the harsh woman, of her love, her
gentleness, and patience for the orphan children of her brother; and
that, after all, there was a fountain very far down in her heart, as
there surely was in everybody's, if we could only find it.
"Well, Cousin Nelly," said Ned, "I'll agree to become a convert to your
theory without further demurring, if you'll promise to tell me where
to find a hidden fountain that lies very far down in a dear little
somebody's heart, and whose precious waters are gushing only for me."
There was a glance, half arch, half loving, from those dark, handsome
eyes, which made me think Cousin Ned knew he would not have to go very
far to find it.
VEGETABLE PHYSIOLOGY.
BY HARLAND COULTAS.
THE PROCESS OF FERTILIZATION.--All organic beings, animals, and plants
reproduce themselves by means of fecundated germs, which we call
embryos. The embryos of plants form in a particular organ called an
ovule, and the matter which fecundates them is termed pollen.
The character of an embryo in organic beings is that it contains, in
a rudimentary state, all the organs of which the organic being is
composed in its entire developments. Thus, in the animal, the uterine
fœtus is composed of the head, the trunk, and the extremities; in other
words, of all the parts of which the adult animal is composed. In like
manner, the embryos of plants, like those of animals, contain all
the parts which compose the fabric of the fully developed plant in a
rudimentary condition. The embryo of a bean, for example, consists of a
plumule or young stem, a pair of leaves or cotyledons, and a radicle or
young root, or the entire plant in a rudimentary state; and, by the act
of germination, analogous in its effects to the commencement of life in
the extra-uterine fœtus, all the parts of the plant develop themselves
into their wonted figure and hues, in accordance with those _peculiar_
organic laws to which the plant is subjected. But germination does not
increase the number of these parts, which existed before its influence
was exercised on them.
Now, plants have sexes, or sexual organs, as well as animals. The
female sexual organs in plants are named carpels. The pistil, already
described, consisting of stigma, style, and germen, is only a fully
developed carpel. The male sexual organs are named stamens, the anthers
of which contain the pollen or fecundating matter. The stamens and
carpels are therefore the essential organs of reproduction in plants,
since it is by the mutual action of these bodies that the embryo of
the future plant is formed, and the same form of life continued in the
earth. Fig. 1 is a representation of a petal, stamen, and the pistil of
Berberis vulgaris, or the common barberry. In this plant, the anthers
open by two valves to let out the pollen. These valves are seen in the
figure, and the pistil is exhibited in section, to show the ovules in
the cavity of the germen.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.]
The reproductive organs only appear at the epoch when plants attain the
full development of all their parts, or arrive at an adult state. The
period when this occurs varies greatly in each species, and depends
entirely on the peculiarities of its constitution. When this epoch
arrives, a visible change takes place in the organic functions; the
stem ceases to elongate, and its internodes no longer developing, the
leaves remain crowded together in closely approximated whorls, and,
after undergoing those peculiar modifications in form and coloring
which we have already described, a flower is produced.
The process of fecundation appears to be as follows: As soon as the
calyx and corolla are fully expanded, the stamens rapidly develop,
their filaments elongate, and the anthers, at first moist and closed,
become dry, and, rupturing, discharge the pollen on the stigma of the
pistil, which at this time is bedewed with a clammy fluid, which serves
to retain the grains of pollen that fall upon its surface. The grains
of pollen, after remaining for some time on the humid stigma, absorb
its moisture, and are seen to swell so that those which are elliptical
assume a spherical form. The thin and highly extensible intine or
inner covering of the pollen grain ultimately is pushed, in the form
of a tube, through one of the pores or ostioles in the surface of the
extine or outer covering, the mode of dehiscence of the pollen grain
being always determined by the character of its surface. The pollen
tube enters the lax tissue of the stigma, and, by gradual increments
of growth, pushes its way down the style into the germen or ovary in
which the ovules are found, up to this period, unfertilized. The tube
enters one of the unimpregnated ovules through a small hole called the
micropyle (from μικξος a little, πυλη gate), conveying
the fecundating fluid matter contained in the cavity of the grain into
the young ovule. This fluid matter is called fovilla, and its flow
through the pollen tube is easily perceived by the movement of those
microscopic corpuscles which it contains.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.]
Fig. 2 is a section through the stigma, and part of the style of
Antirrhinum majus, or the common snapdragon. The pollen grains are seen
adhering to the surface of the stigma, and the tube is pushing its way
down the pistil to the germen.
The ovules having received the impregnating matter, the flower loses
its beauty, and nothing remains but the germen, which swells into a
fruit abounding with seeds, by which the species is continued. An
attentive observer may watch these changes throughout the summer months
in any plant that produces flowers and fruit, and may thus satisfy
himself of the general correctness of these statements.
AUNT TABITHA'S FIRESIDE.
No. IX.--THE MISERY CAUSED BY USING THE WRONG PUDDING-DISH.
BY EDITH WOODLEY
"I believe, Lizzy, that I never told you my own experience about goin'
out to sarvice. I didn't go out 'cause 'twas necessary that I should,
for at my father's there was a house full of everything. We al'ays
lived like the sweet cheeses, as the sayin' is.
"You've heern me tell of Aunt Keziah Higgins. She wasn't my aunt, on'y
a cousin to my mother; but I al'ays called her aunt, out of respect,
seein' she was so much older than I was. Well, she was one of the most
partic'lar bodies that ever breathed the breath of life, except Uncle
Higgins, and he went a hair furder'n she did in some things. She al'ays
chose to do her own work, for there wa'n't a pairson on airth that
could suit her; but one fall she took a dreadful bad cold, and was
threatened with the rebellious fever. Everybody knew how awful nice she
was, to say nothin' of Mr. Higgins, and they couldn't git a soul to
come and stay with 'em for a single day.
"At last, Uncle Higgins come arter me; and, when I found how 'twas, I
consented to go, for it seemed to me a sin and a shame--what I called
right down heathenish--to let the woman suffer for want of bein' took
keer on. I didn't expect that I should suit in everything; but I felt
detarmined, in my own mind, to put the best foot for'ard, and exart
every narve to the utmost to do the best I could, and that was all that
could be expected of anybody.
"They were both so tickled to think I consented to come, that they
neither of 'em uttered a single word of complaint for the two first
days. All I said or did was jest right. I was young, and didn't
understand a dreadful deal about cookin'; but Aunt Keziah wasn't as
sick but what she could give off the orders, so I got along nicely. The
third day she said to me, arter breakfast--
"'Tabitha, I guess I'll have a rice puddin' made for dinner to-day. A
rice puddin', if 'tis made jest right, is Mr. Higgins's favorite.'
"So she told me how to proportionate all the 'gred'encies--how many
eggs, how much rice, sugar, milk, and everything. I mustn't vary the
vally of a thimbleful in an individwal thing, she said, 'cause, if I
did, it wouldn't suit Mr. Higgins. The sass to eat on't, too, must be
made jest so.
"Well, I told her I'd do my best; and I did. If the rice, sugar, and so
on had been goold dust, I couldn't 'ave been an atom more partic'lar
about measurin' 'em; and, arter I got the puddin' into the oven, I
watched it as narrer as ever a cat watched a mouse, so as to be sure
'twas bakin' jest fast enough, and none too fast.
"When 'twas drawin' along towards dinner-time, I thought I'd hunt up a
dish to turn the puddin' into, 'cause, you see, I baked it in a brown,
airthen dish that wa'n't fit to set on the table. Well, I come across
a deep, blue-edged one, jest like one we had at home, that my mother
bought on purpose to put puddin' into. We were to have, besides the
puddin', a grand good b'iled dish--pork and corned beef, and all sorts
of garding-sass, sich as cabbage, turnips, bates, carriots, and so on.
'Twas no fool of a job to prepare so many kinds of sass; but I didn't
vally the trouble, all I aimed at was to suit Uncle Higgins. When I'd
got everything on the table, they looked so nice I felt quite proud.
Accordin' to my mind, 'twas a dinner fit to set afore a king.
"Uncle Higgins was blest with an amazin' good appetite, and, I tell
you, he did good justice to the b'iled dish. Arter a while, he begun to
slack off a leetle mite, and I could see him eyein' the puddin' purty
sharp. At last, says he--
"'What 'ave you got there, Tabitha?'
"'A rice puddin', sir,' says I.
"'A rice puddin'?' says he.
"'Yes, sir,' says I.
"'Well, then, I guess you never sarved much of a 'prenticeship at
making rice puddin's,' says he.