The light had hardly began to streak the east, when the Indian awoke

Ichabod, and after a slight repast, the twain started for the settlement

of the whites. Late in the afternoon, as they emerged from a thick wood,

Ichabod with joy espied his home. A heartfelt ejaculation had scarce

escaped his lips, when the Indian stepped before him, and turning

around, stared him full in the face, and inquired if he had any

recollection of a previous acquaintance with his red brother. Upon being

answered in the negative, the Indian said, "Five moons ago, when I was

faint and weary, you called me an Indian dog, and drove me from your

door. I might now be revenged; but Cantantowwit bids me tell you to go

home; and hereafter, when you see a red man in need of kindness, do to

him as you have been done by. Farewell."

The Indian having said this, turned upon his heel, and was soon out of

sight. Ichabod was abashed. He went home purified in heart, having

learned a lesson of Christianity from an untutored savage.

TABITHA.

THE FIRST DISH OF TEA.

Tea holds a conspicuous place in the history of our country; but it is

no part of my business to offer comments, or to make any remarks upon

the spirit of olden time, which prompted those patriotic defenders of

their country's rights to destroy so much tea, to express their

indignation at the oppression of their fellow citizens. I only intend to

inform the readers of the "Lowell Offering" that the first dish of tea

which was ever made in Portsmouth, N. H., was made by Abigail Van Dame,

my great-great-grandmother.

Abigail was early in life left an orphan, and the care of her tender

years devolved upon her aunt Townsend, to whose store fate had never

added any of the smiling blessings of Providence; and as a thing in

course, Abigail became not only the adopted, but also the well-beloved,

child of her uncle and aunt Townsend. They gave her every advantage for

an education which the town of Portsmouth afforded; and at the age of

seventeen she was acknowledged to be the most accomplished young lady in

Portsmouth.

Many were the worshippers who bowed at the shrine of beauty and learning

at the domicile of Alphonzo Townsend; but his lovely niece was unmoved

by their petitions, much to the perplexity of her aunt, who often

charged Abigail with carrying an obdurate heart in her bosom. In vain

did Mrs. Townsend urge her niece to accept the offers of a young student

of law; and equally vain were her efforts to gain a clue to the cause of

the refusal, until, by the return of an East India Merchantman, Mr.

Townsend received a small package for his niece, and a letter from

Captain Lowd, asking his consent to their union, which he wished might

take place the following year, when he should return to Portsmouth.

Abigail's package contained a Chinese silk hat, the crown of which was

full of Bohea tea. A letter informed her that the contents of the hat

was the ingredient, which, boiled in water, made what was called the

"Chinese soup."

Abigail, anxious to ascertain the flavor of a beverage, of which she had

heard much, put the brass skillet over the coals, poured in two quarts

of water, and added thereto a pint bason full of tea, and a gill of

molasses, and let it simmer an hour. She then strained it through a

linen cloth, and in some pewter basins set it around the supper table,

in lieu of bean-porridge, which was the favorite supper of the epicures

of the olden time.

Uncle, aunt, and Abigail, seated themselves around the little table, and

after crumbling some brown bread into their basins, commenced eating the

Chinese soup. The first spoonful set their faces awry, but the second

was past endurance; and Mrs. Townsend screamed with fright, for she

imagined that she had tasted poison. The doctor was sent for, who

administered a powerful emetic; and the careful aunt persuaded her niece

to consign her hat and its contents to the vault of an outbuilding.

When Capt. Lowd returned to Portsmouth, he brought with him a chest of

tea, a China tea-set, and a copper teakettle, and instructed Abigail in

the art of tea-making and tea drinking, to the great annoyance of her

aunt Townsend, who could never believe that Chinese soup was half so

good as bean-porridge.

The _first dish of tea_ afforded a fund of amusement for Capt. Lowd and

lady, and I hope the narrative will be acceptable to modern

tea-drinkers.

TABITHA.

LEISURE HOURS OF THE MILL GIRLS.

The leisure hours of the mill girls--how shall they be spent? As Ann,

Bertha, Charlotte, Emily, and others, spent theirs? as we spend ours?

Let us decide.

No. 4 was to stop a day for repairs. Ann sat at her window until she

tired of watching passers-by. She then started up in search of one idle

as herself, for a companion in a saunter. She called at the chamber

opposite her own. The room was sadly disordered. The bed was not made,

although it was past nine o'clock. In making choice of dresses, collars,

aprons, _pro tempore_, some half dozen of each had been taken from their

places, and there they were, lying about on chairs, trunks, and bed,

together with mill clothes just taken off. Bertha had not combed her

hair; but Charlotte gave hers a hasty dressing before "going out

shopping;" and there lay brush, combs, and hair on the table. There were

a few pictures hanging about the walls, such as "You are the prettiest

Rose," "The Kiss," "Man Friday," and a miserable, soiled drawing of a

"Cottage Girl." Bertha blushed when Ann entered. She was evidently

ashamed of the state of her room, and vexed at Ann's intrusion. Ann

understood the reason when Bertha told her, with a sigh, that she had

been "hurrying all the morning to get through the 'Children of the

Abbey,' before Charlotte returned."

"Ann, I wish you would talk to her," said she. "Her folks are very poor.

I have it on the best authority. Elinda told me that it was confidently

reported by girls who came from the same town, that her folks had been

known to jump for joy at the sight of a crust of bread. She spends every

cent of her wages for dress and confectionary. She has gone out now; and

she will come back with lemons, sugar, rich cake, and so on. She had

better do as I do--spend her money for books, and her leisure time in

reading them. I buy three volumes of novels every month; and when that

is not enough, I take some from the circulating library. I think it our

duty to improve our minds as much as possible, now the mill girls are

beginning to be thought so much of."

Ann was a bit of a wag. Idle as a breeze, like a breeze she sported with

every _trifling_ thing that came in her way.

"Pshaw!" said she. "And so we must begin to read silly novels, be very

sentimental, talk about tears and flowers, dews and bowers. There is

some poetry for you, Bertha. Don't you think I'd better 'astonish the

natives,' by writing a poetical rhapsody, nicknamed 'Twilight Reverie,'

or some other silly, inappropriate thing, and sending it to the

'Offering?' Oh, how fine this would be! Then I could purchase a few

novels, borrow a few more, take a few more from a circulating library;

and then shed tears and grow soft over them--all because we are taking a

higher stand in the world, you know, Bertha."

Bertha again blushed. Ann remained some moments silent.

"Did you ever read Pelham?" asked Bertha, by way of breaking the

silence.

"No; I read no novels, good, bad, or indifferent. I have been thinking,

Bertha, that there may be danger of our running away from the reputation

we enjoy, as a class. For my part, I sha'n't ape the follies of other

classes of females. As Isabel Greenwood says--and you know she is always

right about such things--I think we shall lose our independence,

originality, and individuality of character, if we all take one standard

of excellence, and this the customs and opinions of others. This is a

jaw-cracking sentence for me. If any body had uttered it but Isabel, I

should, perhaps, have laughed at it. As it was, I treasured it up for

use, as I do the wise sayings of Franklin, Dudley, Leavitt, and Robert

Thomas. I, for one, shall not attempt to become so accomplished. I shall

do as near right as I can conveniently, not because I have a heavy

burden of gentility to support, but because it is quite as easy to do

right,

'And then I sleep so sweet at night.'

"Good morning, Bertha."

At the door she met Charlotte, on her return, with lemons, nuts, and

cake.

"I am in search of a companion for a long ramble," said Ann. "Can you

recommend a _subject_?"

"I should think Bertha would like to shake herself," said Charlotte.

"She has been buried in a novel ever since she was out of bed this

morning. It was her turn to do the chamber work this morning; and this

is the way she always does, if she can get a novel. She would not mind

sitting all day, with dirt to her head. It is a shame for her to do so.

She had better be wide awake, enjoying life, as I am."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Ann, in her usual _brusque_ manner. "There is not

a cent's choice between you this morning; both are doing wrong, and each

is condemning the other without mercy. So far you are both just like me,

you see. Good morning."

She walked on to the next chamber. She had enough of the philosopher

about her to reason from appearances, and from the occupation of its

inmates, that she could succeed no better there. Every thing was in the

most perfect order. The bed was shaped, and the sheet hemmed down _just

so_. Their lines that hung by the walls were filled "jist." First came

starched aprons, then starched capes, then pocket handkerchiefs, folded

with the marked corner out. Then hose. This room likewise, had its

paintings, and like those of the other, they were in perfect keeping

with the general arrangements of the room and the dress of its

occupants. There was an apology for a lady. Her attitude and form were

of precisely that uncouth kind which is produced by youthful artificers,

who form head, body and feet from one piece of shingle; and wedge in two

sticks at right angles with the body, for arms. Her sleeves increased in

dimensions from the shoulders, and the skirt from the belt, but without

the semblance of a fold. This, with some others of the same school, and

two "profiles," were carefully preserved in frames, and the frames in

screens of green barage. Miss Clark was busily engaged in making

netting, and Miss Emily in making a dress. Ann made known her wants to

them, more from curiosity to hear their reply, than from a hope of

success. In measured periods they thanked her--would have been happy to

accompany her. "But, really, I must be excused," said Miss Clark. "I

have given myself a stint, and I always feel bad if I fall an inch short

of my plans."

"Yes; don't you think, Ann," said Emily, "she has stinted herself to

make five yards of netting to-day. And mother says there is ten times as

much in the house as we shall ever need. Father says there is twenty

times as much; for he knows we shall both be old maids, ha! ha!"

"Yes, and I always tell him that if I am an old maid I shall need the

more. Our folks make twenty or thirty yards of table linen every year. I

mean to make fringe for every yard; and have enough laid by for the next

ten years, before I leave the mill."

"Well, Emily," said Ann, "you have no fringe to make, can't you

accompany me?"

"I should be glad to, Ann; but I am over head and ears in work. I have

got my work all done up, every thing that I could find to do. Now I am

making a dress for Bertha."

"Why, Emily, you are making a slave of yourself, body and mind," said

Ann. "Can't you earn enough in the mill to afford yourself a little time

for rest and amusement?"

"La! I don't make but twelve dollars a month, besides my board. I have

made a great many dresses evenings, and have stinted myself to finish

this to-day. So I believe I can't go, any way. I should be terrible glad

to."

"Oh, you are very excusable," answered Ann. "But let me ask if you take

any time to read."

"No; not much. We can't afford to. Father owns the best farm in Burt;

but we have always had to work hard, and always expect to. We generally

read a chapter every day. We take turns about it. One of us reads while

the other works."

"Yes; but lately we have only taken time to read a short psalm," said

Emily, again laughing.

"Well, the Bible says, 'Let him that is without sin cast the first

stone,' or I might be tempted to remind you that there is such a thing

as laboring too much 'for the meat that perisheth.' Good morning,

ladies."

Ann heard a loud, merry laugh from the next room, as she reached the

door. It was Ellinora Frothingham's; no one could mistake, who had heard

it once. It seemed the out-pouring of glee that could no longer be

suppressed. Ellinor sat on the floor, just as she had thrown herself on

her return from a walk. Her pretty little bonnet was lying on the floor

on one side, and on the other a travelling bag, whose contents she had

just poured into her lap. There were apples, pears, melons, a

mock-orange, a pumpkin, squash, and a crooked cucumber. Ellinora sprang

to her feet when Ann entered, and threw the contents of her lap on the

floor with such violence, as to set them to rolling all about. Then she

laughed and clapped her hands to see the squash chase the mock-orange

under the bed, a great russet running so furiously after a little fellow

of the Baldwin family, and finally pinning him in a corner. A pear

started in the chase; but after taking a few turns, he sat himself down

to shake his fat sides and enjoy the scene. Ellinora stepped back a few

paces to elude the pursuit of the pumpkin, and then, with well-feigned

terror, jumped into a chair. But the drollest personage of the group was

the ugly cucumber. There he sat, Forminius-like, watching the mad freaks

of his companions.

"Ha! see that cucumber?" exclaimed Ellinora, laughing heartily. "If he

had hands, how he would raise them so! If he had eyes and mouth, how he

would open them so!" suiting action to her words. "Look, Ann! look,

Fanny! See if it does not look like the Clark girls, when one leaves any

thing in the shape of dirt on their table or stand!"

Peace was at length restored among the _inanimates_.

"I came to invite you to walk; but I find I am too late," said Ann.

"Yes. Oh, how I wish you had been with us! You would have been so

happy!" said Ellinora. "We started out very early--before

sunrise--intending to take a brisk walk of a mile or two, and return in

season for breakfast. We went over to Dracut, and met such adventures

there and by the way, as will supply me with food for laughter years

after I get married, and trouble comes. We came along where some oxen

were standing, yoked, eating their breakfast while their owner was

eating his. They were attached to a cart filled with pumpkins. I took

some of the smallest, greenest ones, and stuck them fast on the tips of

the oxen's horns. I was so interested in observing how the ceremony

affected the Messrs. Oxen, that I did not laugh a bit until I had

crowned all four of them. I looked up to Fanny, as I finished the work,

and there she sat on a great rock, where she had thrown herself when she

could no longer stand. Poor girl! tears were streaming down her cheeks.

With one hand she was holding her lame side, and with the other filling

her mouth with her pocket handkerchief, that the laugh need not run out,

I suppose. Well, as soon as I looked at her, and at the oxen, I burst

into a laugh that might have been heard miles, I fancy. Oh! I shall

never forget how reprovingly those oxen looked at me. The poor

creatures could not eat with such an unusual weight on their horns, so

they pitched their heads higher than usual, and now and then gave them a

graceful cant, then stood entirely motionless, as if attempting to

conjecture what it all meant.

"Well, that loud and long laugh of mine, brought a whole volley of folks

to the door--farmer, and farmer's wife, farmer's sons, and farmer's

daughters. 'Whoa hish!' exclaimed the farmer, before he reached the

door; and 'Whoa hish!' echoed all the farmer's sons. They all stopped as

soon as they saw me. I would remind you that I still stood before the

oxen, laughing at them. I never saw such comical expressions as those

people wore. Did you, Fanny? Even those pictures of mine are not so

funny. I thought we should raise the city police; for they had

tremendous voices, and I never saw any body laugh so.

"As soon as I could speak, and they could listen to me, I walked up to

the farmer. 'I beg your pardon sir,' said I, 'but I did want to laugh

so! Came all the way from Lowell for something new to laugh at.' He was

a good, sensible man, and this proves it. He said it was a good thing to

have a hearty laugh occasionally--good for the health and spirits. Work

would go off easier all day for it, especially with the boys. As he said

'boys,' I could not avoid smiling as I looked at a fine young sprig of a

farmer, his oldest son, as he afterwards told us, full twenty-one."

"And now, Miss Ellinora," said Fanny, "I shall avenge myself on you, for

certain saucy freaks, perpetrated against my most august commands, by

telling Ann, that as you looked at this 'young sprig of a farmer,' he

looked at you, and you both blushed. What made you, Nora? I never saw

you blush before."

"What made you, Nora?" echoed Ellinora, laughing and blushing slightly.

"Well, the farmer's wife invited us to rest and breakfast with them. We

began to make excuses; but the farmer added his good natured commands,

so we went in; and after a few arrangements, such as placing more

plates, &c., a huge pumpkin pie, and some hot potatoes, pealed in the

cooking, we sat down to a full round table. There were the mealy

potatoes, cold boiled dish, warm biscuit and dough-nuts, pie, coffee,

pickles, sauce, cheese, and just such butter and brown bread as mother

makes--bread hot, just taken from the oven. They all appeared so

pleasant and kind, that I felt as if in my own home, with my own family

around me. Wild as I was, as soon as I began to tell them how it seemed

to me, I burst into tears in spite of myself, and was obliged to leave

the table. But they all pitied me so much, that I brushed off my tears,

went back to my breakfast, and have laughed ever since."

"You have forgotten two very important items," said Fanny, looking

archly into Ellinora's face. "This 'fine young sprig of a farmer'

happened to recollect that he had business in town to-day; so he took

their carriage and brought us home, after Nora and a roguish sister of

his had filled her bag as you see. And more and better still, they

invited us to spend a day with them soon; and promised to send this

'fine young sprig,' &c., for us on the occasion."

Ellinora was too busily engaged in collecting her fruit to reply. She

ran from the room; and in a few moments returned with several young

girls, to whom she gave generous supplies of apples, pears, and melons.

She was about seating herself with a full plate, when a new idea seemed

to flash upon her. She laughed, and started for the door.

"Ellinora, where now?" asked Fanny.

"To the Clark girls' room, to leave an apple peeling and core on their

table, a pear pealing on their stand, and melon, apple, and pear seeds

all about the floor," answered Ellinora, gaily snapping her fingers, and

nodding her head.

"What for? Here, Nora; come back. For what?"

"Why, to see them suffer," said the incorrigible girl. "You know I told

you this morning, that sport is to be the order of the day. So no

scoldings, my dear."

She left the room, and Fanny turned to one of the ladies who had just

entered.

"Where is Alice," said she. "Did not Ellinora extend an invitation to

her?"

"Yes; but she is half dead with the _blues_, to-day. The Brown girls

came back last night. They called on Alice this morning, and left

letters and presents from home for her. She had a letter from her little

brother, ten years old. He must be a fine fellow, judging from that

letter, it was so sensible, and so witty too! One moment I laughed at

some of his lively expressions, and the next cried at his expressions of

love for Alice, and regret for her loss. He told her how he cried

himself to sleep the night after she left home; and his flowers seemed

to have faded, and the stars to have lost their brightness, when he no

longer had her by his side to talk to him about them. I find by his

letter that Alice is working to keep him at school. That part of it

which contained his thanks for her goodness was blistered with the

little fellow's tears. Alice cried like a child when she read it, and I

did not wonder at it. But she ought to be happy now. Her mother sent her

a fine pair of worsted hose of her own spinning and knitting, and a nice

cake of her own making. She wrote, that, trifling as these presents

were, she knew they would be acceptable to her daughter, because made by

her. When Alice read this, she cried again. Her sister sent her a pretty

little fancy basket, and her brother a bunch of flowers from her

mother's garden. They were enclosed in a tight tin box, and were as

fresh as when first gathered. Alice sent out for a new vase. She has

filled it with her flowers, and will keep them watered with her tears,

judging from present appearances. Alice is a good-hearted girl, and I

love her, but she is always talking or thinking of something to make her

unhappy. A letter from a friend, containing nothing but good news, and

assurances of friendship, that ought to make her happy, generally throws

her into a crying fit, which ends in a moping fit of melancholy. This

destroys her own happiness, and that of all around her.'"

"You ought to talk to her, she is spoiling herself," said Mary Mason,

whose mouth was literally crammed with the last apple of a second

plateful.

"I have often urged her to be more cheerful. But she answers me with a

helpless, hopeless, 'I can't Jane! you know I can't. I shall never be

happy while I live; and I often think that the sooner I go where "the

weary are at rest," the better.' I don't know how many times she has

given me an answer like this. Then she will sob as if her heart were

bursting. She sometimes wears me quite out; and I feel as I did when

Ellinora called me, as if released from a prison."

"Would it improve her spirits to walk with me?" asked Ann.

"Perhaps it would, if you can persuade her to go. Do try, dear Ann,"

answered Jane. "I called at Isabel Greenwood's room as I came along, and

asked her to go in and see if she could rouse her up."

Ann heard Isabel's voice in gentle but earnest expostulation, as she

reached Alice's room. Isabel paused when Ann entered, kissed her cheek,

and resigned her rocking-chair to her. Alice was sobbing too violently

to speak. She took her face from her handkerchief, bowed to Ann, and

again buried it. Ann invited them to walk with her. Isabel cheerfully

acceded to her proposal, and urged Alice to accompany them.

"Don't urge me, Isabel," said Alice; "I am only fit for the solitude of

my chamber. I could not add at all to your pleasure. My thoughts would

be at my home, and I could not enjoy a walk in the least degree. But

Isabel, I do not want you to leave me so. I know that you think me very

foolish to indulge in these useless regrets, as you call them. You will

understand me better if you just consider the situation of my mother's

family. My mother a widow, my oldest brother at the West, my oldest

sister settled in New York, my youngest brother and sister only with

mother, and I a Lowell factory girl! And such I must be--for if I leave

the mill, my brother cannot attend school all of the time; and his heart

would almost break to take him from school. And how can I be happy in

such a situation; I do not ask for riches; but I would be able to gather

my friends all around me. Then I could be happy. Perhaps I am as happy

now as you would be in my situation, Isabel."

Isabel's eyes filled, but she answered in her own sweet, calm manner:

"We will compare lots, my dear Alice. I have neither father, mother,

sister, nor home in the world. Three years ago I had all of these, and

every other blessing that one could ask. The death of my friends, the

distressing circumstances attending them, the subsequent loss of our

large property, and the critical state of my brother's health at

present, are not slight afflictions, nor are they lightly felt."

Isabel's emotions, as she paused to subdue them by a powerful mental

effort, proved her assertion. Alice began to dry her tears, and to look

as if ashamed of her weakness.

"I, too, am a Lowell factory girl," pursued Isabel. "I, too, am laboring

for the completion of a brother's education. If that brother were well,

how gladly would I toil! But that disease is upon his vitals which laid

father, mother, and sister in their graves, in one short year. I can see

it in the unnatural and increasing brightness of his eye, and hear it in

his hollow cough. He has entered upon his third collegiate year; and is

too anxious to graduate next commencement, to heed my entreaties, or the

warning of his physician."

She again paused. Her whole frame shook with emotion; but not a tear

mingled with Ann's, as they fell upon her hand.

"You see, Alice," she at length added, "what reasons I have for regret

when I think of the past, and what for fear when I turn to the future.

Still I am happy, almost continually. My lost friends are so many

magnets, drawing heavenward those affections that would otherwise rivet

themselves too strongly to earthly loves. And those dear ones who are

yet spared to me, scatter so many flowers in my pathway, that I seldom

feel the thorns. I am cheered in my darkest hours by their kindness and

affection, animated at all times by a wish to do all in my power to make

them happy. If my brother is spared to me, I ask for nothing more. And

if he is first called, I trust I shall feel that it is the will of One

who is too wise to err, and too good to be unkind."

"You are the most like my mother, Isabel, of any one I ever saw," said

Ann. "She is never free from pain, yet she never complains. And if Pa,

or any of us, just have a cold or head ache, she does not rest till 'she

makes us well.' You have more trouble than any other girl in the house;

but instead of claiming the sympathies of every one on that account, you

are always cheering others in their little, half-imaginary trials.

Alice, I think you and I ought to be ashamed to shed a tear, until we

have some greater cause than mere home-sickness, or low spirits."

"Why, Ann, I can no more avoid low spirits, than I can make a world!"

exclaimed Alice, in a really aggrieved tone. "And I don't want you all

to think that I have no trouble. I want sympathy, and I can't live

without it. Oh that I was at home this moment!"

"Why, Alice, there is hardly a girl in this house who has not as much

trouble, in some shape, as you have. You never think of pitying them;

and pray what gives you such strong claims on their sympathies? Do you

walk with us, or do you not?"

Alice shook her head in reply. Isabel whispered a few words in her

ear--they might be of reproof, they might be of consolation--then

retired with Ann to equip for their walk.

"What a beautiful morning this is!" exclaimed Ann, as they emerged from

the house. "_Malgre_ some inconveniences, factory girls are as happy as

any class of females. I sometimes think it hard to rise so early, and

work so many hours shut up in the house. But when I get out at night, on

the Sabbath, or at any other time, I am just as happy as a bird, and

long to fly and sing with them. And Alice will keep herself shut up all

day. Is it not strange that all will not be as happy as they can be? It

is so pleasant."

Isabel returned Ann's smile. "Yes, Ann, it is strange that every one

does not prefer happiness. Indeed, it is quite probable that every one

does prefer it. But some mistake the modes of acquiring it through want

of judgment. Others are too indolent to employ the means necessary to

its attainment, and appear to expect it to flow in to them, without

taking any pains to prepare a channel. Others, like our friend Alice,

have constitutional infirmities, which entail upon them a deal of

suffering, that to us, of different mental organization, appears wholly

unnecessary."

"Why, don't you think Alice might be as happy as we are, if she chose?

Could she not be as grateful for letters and love-tokens from home?

Could she not leave her room, and come out into this pure air, listen to

the birds, and catch their spirit? Could she not do all this, Isabel, as

well as we?"

"Well, I do not know, Ann. Perhaps not. You know that the minds of

different persons are like instruments of different tones. The same

touch thrills gaily on one, mournfully on another."

"Yes; and I know, Isabel, that different minds may be compared to the

same instrument _in_ and _out_ of tune. Now I have heard Alice say that

she loved to indulge this melancholy; that she loved to read Byron, Mrs.

Hemans, and Miss Landon, until her heart was as gloomy as the grave.

Isn't this strange--even silly?"

"It is most unfortunate, Ann."

"Isabel, you are the strangest girl! I have heard a great many say, that

one cannot make you say anything against anybody; and I believe they are

correct. And when you reprove one, you do it in such a mild, pretty way,

that one only loves you the better for it. Now, I smash on, pell-mell,

as if unconscious of a fault in myself. Hence, I oftener offend than

amend. Let me think.--This morning I have administered reproof in my own

blunt way to Bertha for reading novels, to Charlotte for eating

confectionary, to the Clark girls for their 'all work and no play,' and

to Alice for moping. I have been wondering all along how they can spend

their time so foolishly. I see that my own employment would scarcely

bear the test of close criticism, for I have been watching motes in

others' eyes, while a beam was in my own. Now, Isabel, I must ask a

favor. I do not want to be very fine and nice; but I would be gentle and

kind hearted--would do some good in the world. I often make attempts to

this end; but always fail, somehow. I know my manner needs correcting;

and I want you to reprove me as you would a sister, and assist me with

your advice. Will you not, dear Isabel?"

She pressed Isabel's arm closer to her side, and a tear was in her eye

as she looked up for an answer to her appeal.

"You know not what you ask, my beloved girl," answered Isabel, in a low

and tremulous tone. "You know not the weakness of the staff on which you

would lean, or the frailties of the heart to which you would look up,

for aid. Of myself, dear Ann, I can do nothing. I can only look to God

for protection from temptation, and for guidance in the right way. When

He keeps me, I am safe; when He withdraws His spirit, I am weak indeed.

And can I lead you, Ann? No! you must go to a higher than earthly

friend. Pray to Him in every hour of need, and He will be 'more to you

than you can ask, or even think.'"

"How often I have wished that I could go to Him as mother does--just as

I would go to a father!" said Ann. "But I dare not. It would be mockery

in one who has never experienced religion."

"Make prayer a _means_ of this experience, my dear girl. Draw near to

God by humble, constant prayer, and He will draw near to you by the

influences of His spirit, which will make you just what you wish to be,

a good, kind-hearted girl. You will learn to love God as a father, as

the author of your happiness and every good thing. And you will be

prepared to meet those trials which must be yours in life as the

'chastisements of a Father's hand, directed by a Father's love.' And

when the hour of death comes, dear Ann, how sweet, how soothing will be

the deep-felt conviction that you are going _home_! You will have no

fears, for your trust will be in One whom you have long loved and

served; and you will feel as if about to meet your best, and most

familiar friend."

Ann answered only by her tears; and for some minutes they walked on in

silence. They were now some distance from town. Before them lay farms,

farm-houses, groves and scattering trees, from whose branches came the

mingled song of a thousand birds. Isabel directed Ann's attention to the

beauty of the scene. Ann loved nature; but she had such a dread of

sentimentalism that she seldom expressed herself freely. Now she had no

reserves, and Isabel found that she had not mistaken her capacities, in

supposing her possessed of faculties, which had only to develop

themselves more fully, which had only to become constant incentives to

action, to make her all she could wish.

"You did not promise, Isabel," said Ann, with a happy smile, as they

entered their street, "you did not promise to be my sister; but you

will, will you not?"

"Yes, dear Ann; we will be sisters to each other. I think you told me

that you have no sister."

"I had none until now; and I have felt as if part of my affections could

not find a resting place, but were weighing down my heart with a burden

that did not belong to it. I shall no longer be like a branch of our

woodbine when it cannot find a clinging place, swinging about at the

mercy of every breeze; but like that when some kind hand twines it about

its frame, firm and trusting. See, Isabel!" exclaimed she, interrupting

herself, "there sits poor Alice, just as we left her. I wish she had

walked with us--she would have felt so much better. Do you think,

Isabel, that religion would make her happy?"

"Most certainly. 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden.

Take my yoke upon you; for I am meek and lowly in heart; and ye _shall_

find rest for your souls,'--is as 'faithful a saying' and as 'worthy of

all acceptation' now, as when it was uttered, and when thousands came

and 'were healed of _all_ manner of diseases.' Yes, Alice may yet be

happy," she added musingly, "if she can be induced to read Byron less,

and her Bible more; to think less of her own gratification, and more of

that of others. And we will be very gentle to her, Ann; but not the less

faithful and constant in our efforts to win her to usefulness and

happiness."

Ellinora met them at the door, and began to describe a frolic that had

occupied her during their absence. She threw her arms around Isabel's

waist, and entered the sitting-room with her. "Now, Isabel, I know you

don't think it right to be so giddy," said she. "I will tell you what I

have resolved to do. You shake your head, Isabel, and I do not wonder at

all. But this resolution was formed this morning, on my way back from

Dracut; and I feel in my 'heart of hearts' 'a sober certainty of waking'

energy to keep it unbroken. It is that I will be another sort of a girl,

altogether, henceforth; steady, but not gloomy; less talkative, but not

reserved; more studious, but not a bookworm; kind and gentle to others,

but not a whit the less independent, 'for a' that,' in my opinions and

conduct.--And, after this day, which I have dedicated to Momus, I want

you to be my Mentor. Now I am for another spree of some sort. Nay,

Isabel, do not remonstrate. You will make me weep with five tender

words."

It needed not so much--for Isabel smiled sadly, kissed her cheek, and

Ellinora's tears fell fast and thick as she ran from the room.

Ann went immediately to Alice's room on her return.--She apologized to

her for reproving her so roughly, described her walk, gave a synopsis of

Isabel's advice, and her consequent determinations. By these means she

diverted Alice's thoughts from herself, gave her nerves a healthy

spring, and when the bell summoned them to dinner, she had recovered

much of her happier humor. Ellinora sat beside her at table. She

laughingly proposed an exchange, offering a portion of her levity for as

much of her gravity. She thought the _equilibrium_ would be more

perfect. So Alice thought, and she heartily wished that the exchange

might be made.

And this exchange seems actually taking place at this time. They are as

intimate as sisters. Together they are resolutely struggling against the

tide of habit. They meet many discouraging failures; but Isabel is ever

ready to cheer them by her sympathy, and to assist them by her advice.

Ann's faults were not so deeply rooted; perhaps she brought more natural

energy to their extermination. Be that as it may, she is now an

excellent lady, a fit companion for the peerless Isabel.

The Clark girls do not, as yet, coalesce in their system of

improvement. They still prefer making netting and dresses, to the

lecture-room, the improvement circle, and even to the reading of the

"Book of books." So difficult is it to turn from the worship of Plutus!

The delusion of Bertha and Charlotte is partially broken. Bertha is

beginning to understand that much reading does not naturally result in

intellectual or moral improvement, unless it be well regulated.

Charlotte is learning that "to enjoy is to obey;" and that to pamper her

own animal appetites, while her father and mother are suffering for want

of the necessaries of life, is not in obedience to Divine command.

And, dear sisters, how is it with each one of _us_? How do we spend our

leisure hours? Now, "in the stilly hour of night," let us pause, and

give our consciences time to render faithful answers.

D.

THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.

"He sleeps there in the midst of the very simplicities of Nature."

There let him sleep, in Nature's arms,

Her well-beloved, her chosen child--

There 'mid the living, quiet charms

Of that sequestered wild.

He would have chosen such a spot,

'Twas fit that they should lay him there,

Away from all the haunts of care;

The world disturbs him not.--

He sleeps full sweet in his retreat--

The place is consecrated ground,

It is not meet unhallowed feet

Should tread that sacred mound.

He lies in pomp--not of display--

No useless trappings grace his bier,

Nor idle words--they may not say

What treasures cluster here.

The pomp of nature, wild and free,

Adorns our hero's lowly bed,

And gently bends above his head

The weeping laurel tree.

In glory's day he shunned display,

And ye may not bedeck him now,

But Nature may, in her own way,

Hang garlands round his brow.

He lies in pomp--not sculptured stone,

Nor chiseled marble--vain pretence--

The glory of his deeds alone

Is his magnificence.

His country's love the meed he won,

He bore it with him down to death,

Unsullied e'en by slander's breath--

His country's sire and son.

Her hopes and fears, her smiles and tears,

Were each his own.--He gave his land

His earliest cares, his choicest years,

And led her conquering band.

He lies in pomp--not pomp of war--

He fought, but fought not for renown;

He triumphed, yet the victor's star

Adorned no regal crown.

His honor was his country's weal;

From off her neck the yoke he tore--

It was enough, he asked no more;

His generous heart could feel

No low desire for king's attire;--

With brother, friend, and country blest,

He could aspire to honors higher

Than kingly crown or crest.

He lies in pomp--his burial place

Than sculptured stone is richer far;

For in the heart's deep love we trace

His name, a golden star.

Wherever patriotism breathes,

His memory is devoutly shrined

In every pure and gifted mind:

And history, with wreaths

Of deathless fame, entwines that name,

Which evermore, beneath all skies,

Like vestal flame, shall live the same,

For virtue never dies.

There let him rest--'t is a sweet spot;

Simplicity becomes the great--But

Vernon's son is not forgot,

Though sleeping not in state.

There, wrapt in his own dignity,

His presence makes it hallowed ground,

And Nature throws her charms around,

And o'er him smiles the sky.

There let him rest--the noblest, best;

The labors of his life all done--

There let him rest, the spot is blessed--

The grave of WASHINGTON.

ADELAIDE.

LIFE AMONG FARMERS.

There is much complaint among farmers' wives and daughters, of want of

time for rest, recreation, and literary pursuits. "It is cook, eat, and

scrub--cook, eat, and scrub, from morning till night, and from year to

year," says many a farmer's wife. And so it is in many families. But how

far this results from the very nature of the situation, and how far from

injudicious domestic management, is a query worthy of our attention. A

very large proportion of my readers, who are now factory girls, will in

a few months or years be the busy wives of busy farmers; and if by a few

speculations on the subject before us, and an illustration to the point,

we can reach _one_ hint that may hereafter be useful to us, our labor

and "search of thought" will not have been in vain.

Mr. Moses Eastman was what is technically called a wealthy farmer. Every

one in the country knows what this means. He had a farm of some hundred

or more acres, a large two-story dwelling house, a capacious yard, in

which were two large barns, sheds, a sheep-cote, granary, and hen-coop.

He kept a hundred sheep, ten cows, horses and oxen in due proportion.

Mr. Eastman often declared that no music was half so sweet to him as

that of the inmates of this yard. I think we shall not quarrel with his

taste in this manifestation; for it is certainly delightful, on a warm

day, in early spring, to listen to them, the lambs, hens--Guinea and

American--turkeys, geese, and ducks and peacocks.

Mr. Eastman was unbending in his adherence to the creed, prejudices, and

customs of his fathers. It was his boast that his farm had passed on

from father to son, to the fourth generation; and everybody could see

that it was none the worse for wear. He kept more oxen, sheep, and cows

than his father kept. He had "pulled down his barns and built larger."

He had surrounded his fields and pastures with stone wall, in lieu of

Virginian, stump, brush, and board fence. And he had taught his sons and

daughters, of whom he had an abundance, to walk in his footsteps--all

but Mary. He should always rue the day that he consented to let Mary go

to her aunt's; but he acted upon the belief that it would lessen his

expenses to be rid of her during her childhood. He had all along

intended to recall her as soon as she was old enough to be serviceable

to him. But he said he believed that would never be, if she lived as

long as Methuselah. She could neither spin nor weave as she ought; for

she put so much material in her yarn, and wove her cloth so thick, that

no profit resulted from its manufacture and sale. Now Deborah, his

oldest daughter, had just her mother's _knack_ of making a good deal out

of a little.--And Mary had imbibed some very dangerous ideas of

religion,--she did not even believe in ghosts!--dress, and reading. For

his part, he would not, on any account, attend any other meeting than

old Mr. Bates's. His father and grandfather always attended there, and

they prospered well. But Mary wanted to go to the other meeting

occasionally, all because Mr. Morey happened to be a bit of an orator.

True, Mr. Bates was none of the smartest; but there was an advantage in

this. He could sleep as soundly, and rest as rapidly, when at his

meeting, as in his bed; and by this means he could regain the sleep lost

during the week by rising early and working late. And Mary had grown so

proud that she would not wear a woolen home-manufactured dress

visiting, as Deborah did. She must flaunt off to meeting every Sabbath,

in white or silk, while _chintz_ was good enough for Deborah. Deborah

seldom read anything but the Bible, Watts's Hymn Book, "Pilgrim's

Progress," and a few tracts they had in the house. Mary had hardly laid

off her finery, on her return from her aunt's, before she inquired about

books and newspapers. Her aunt had heaps of books and papers. These had

spoilt Mary. True, papers were sometimes useful; he would have lost five

hundred dollars by the failure of the ---- Bank, but for a newspaper he

borrowed of Captain Norwood. But the Captain had enough of them--was

always ready to lend to him--and he saved no small sum in twenty years

by borrowing papers of him.

How Captain Norwood managed to add to his property he could not

conceive. So much company, fine clothing, and schooling! he wondered

that it did not ruin him. And 'twas all folly--'twas a sin; for they

were setting extravagant examples, and every body thought they must do

as the Norwoods did. Mr. Norwood ought to remember that his father wore

home-made; and what was good enough for his good old father was good

enough for _him_. But alas! times were dreadfully altered.

As for Mary, she must turn over a new leaf, or go back to her aunt. He

would not help one who did not help herself. Mary was willing, nay,

anxious to return. To spend one moment, except on the Sabbath, in

reading, was considered a crime; to gather a flower or mineral, absurd;

and Mary begged that she might be permitted to return to Mrs. Barlow. As

there was no prospect of reforming her, Mr. Eastman and his wife readily

consented. Mr. Eastman told her, at the same time, that she must be

preparing for a wet day; and repeatedly charged her to remember that

those who folded their hands in the summer, must "beg in harvest, and

have nothing."

Mary had often visited the Norwoods and other young friends, during the

year spent at home; but she had not been permitted to give a party in

return. Why, Deborah had never thought of doing such a thing! Mary

begged the indulgence of her mother, with the assurance that it was the

last favor she would ever ask at her hand. The _mother_ in her at last

yielded; and she promised to use her influence with her husband. After a

deal of cavilling, he consented, on the condition that the strictest

economy should attend the expenditures on the occasion, and that they

should exercise more prudence in the family, until their loss was made

gain. So the party was given.

"You find yourself thrown on barren ground, Miss Norwood," said Mary, as

she saw Miss Norwood looking around the room; "neither papers, books,

plants, plates, nor minerals."

"Where are those rocks you brought in, Molly!" said Deborah, with a

loud, grating laugh.

Mary attempted to smile, but her eyes were full of tears.

"What rocks, Deborah!" asked Clarina Norwood.

"Them you see stuffed into the garden wall, there.--Mary fixed them all

in a row on the table. I think as father does, that nothing is worth

saving that can't be used; so I put them in the wall to keep the hens

out of the garden. The silly girl cried when she see them; should you

have thought it?"

"What were they, Mary?" asked Clarina.

"Very pretty specimens of white, rose, and smoky quartz, black and white

mica, gneiss, hornblende, and a few others, that I collected on that

very high hill, west of here."

"How unfortunate to lose them!" said Miss Norwood, in a soothing tone.

"Could not we recover them, dear Mary?"

"There is no room for them," said Deborah. "We want to spread currants

and blueberries on the tables to be dried. Besides, I think as father

does, that there is enough to do, without spending the time in such

flummery. As father says, 'time is our estate,' and I think we ought to

improve every moment of it, except Sundays, in work."

"I must differ from you, Miss Eastman," said Miss Norwood. "I cannot

think it the duty of any one to labor entirely for the 'meat that

perisheth.' Too much, vastly too much time is spent thus by almost all."

"The mercy! you would have folks prepare for a wet day, wouldn't you?"

"I would have every one make provision for a comfortable subsistence;

and this is enough. The mind should be cared for, Deborah. It should not

be left to starve, or feed on husks."

"I don't know about this mind, of which you and our Mary make such a

fuss. My concern is for my body. Of this I know enough."

"Yes; you know that it is dust, and that to dust it must return in a

little time, while the mind is to live on for ever, with God and His

holy angels. Think of this a moment, Deborah; and say, should not the

mind be fed and clothed upon, when its destiny is so glorious? Or should

we spend our whole lives in adding another acre to our farms, another

dress to our wardrobe, and another dollar to our glittering heap?"

"Oh, la! all this sounds nicely; but I _do_ think that every man who has

children should provide for them."

"Certainly--intellectual food and clothing. It is for this I am

contending. He should provide a comfortable bodily subsistence, and

educate them as far as he is able and their destinies require."

"And he should leave them a few hundreds, or thousands, to give them a

kind of a start in the world."

"He does this in giving them a liberal education, and he leaves them in

banks that will always discount. But farther than education of intellect

and propensity is concerned, I am for the self-made man. I think it

better for sons to carve their own way to eminence with little pecuniary

aid by way of a settlement; and for daughters to be 'won and wedded' for

their own intrinsic excellence, not for the dowry in store for them from

a rich father."

"There is no arguing with you, everybody says; so I'll go and see how my

cakes bake."

Mr. Eastmam came in to tea, contrary to his usual custom.

"Clarina, has your father sold that great calf of his?" he inquired, as

he seated himself snugly beside his "better half."

"Indeed, I do not know, sir," answered Clarina, biting her lip to avoid

laughing.

"I heard Mr. Montgomery ask him the same question, this morning; and Pa

said 'yes,' I believe," said Miss Norwood, smiling.

"How much did he get for it?"

Miss Norwood did not know.

"Like Mary, I see," said Mr. Eastman. "Now I'll warrant you that Debby

can tell the price of every creature I've sold this year."

"Yes, father; I remember as plain as day, how much you got from that

simple Joe Slater, for the white-faced calf--how much you got for the

black-faced sheep, Rowley and Jumble, and for Star and Bright. Oh, how I

want to see Bright! And then there is the black colt--you got forty

dollars for him, didn't you, father?"

"Yes, Debby; you are a keen one," said Mr. Eastman triumphantly. "Didn't

I tell you so, Julia?"

"I do not burden my memory with superfluities," answered Miss Norwood.

"I can scarcely find room for necessaries."

"And do you rank the best way of making pies, cakes, and puddings, with

necessaries or superfluities?"

"Among necessaries in household economy, certainly," answered Miss

Norwood. "But Mrs. Child's 'Frugal Housewife' renders them superfluities

as a part of memory's storage."

"Oh, the book costs something, you know; and if this can be saved by a

little exercise of the memory, it is well, you know."

"The most capacious and retentive memory would fail to treasure up and

retain all that one wishes to know of cooking and other matters," said

Clarina.

"Well, then, one may copy from her book," said Mr. Eastman.

"Indeed, Mr. Eastman, to spend one's time in copying her recipes, when

the work can be purchased for twenty-five cents, would be 'straining out

a gnat, and swallowing a camel,'" remarked the precise and somewhat

pedantic Miss Ellinor Gould Smith. "And then the peculiar disadvantages

of referring to manuscript! I had my surfeit of this before the

publication of her valuable work."

"Ah! it is every thing but valuable," answered Mr. Eastman. "Just think

of her pounds of sugar, her two pounds of butter, her dozen eggs, and

ounces of nutmegs. Depend upon it, they are not very valuable in the

holes they would make in our cash-bags." He said this with precisely the

air of one who imagines he has uttered a poser.

"But you forget her economical and wholesome prescriptions for disease,

her directions for repairing and preserving clothing and provisions,

that would be lost without them," answered Miss Smith.

"But one should always be prying into these things, and learn them for

themselves," said Mr. Eastman.

"On the same principle, extended in its scale, every man might make his

own house, furniture, and clothing," said Miss Norwood. "With the

expenditure of much labor and research, she has supplied us with

directions; and I think it would be vastly foolish for every wife and

daughter to expend just as much, when they can be supplied with the

fruits of hers, for the product of half a day's labor."

"Does your mother use it much?" asked Mrs. Eastman.

"Yes; she acknowledges herself much indebted to it."

"I shouldn't think she'd need it; she is so notable. Has she made many

cheeses this summer?"

"About the usual number, I believe."

"Well, I've made more than I ever did a year afore--thirty in my largest

hoop, all new milk, and twenty in my next largest, part skimmed milk.

Our cheese press is terribly out of order, now. It must be fixed, Mr.

Eastman. And I have made more butter, or else our folks haven't ate as

much as common. I've made it salter, and there's a great saving in

this."

"There's a good many ways to save in the world, if one will take pains

to find them out," said Mr. Eastman.

"Doubtless; but I think the best method of saving in provisions is to

eat little," said Clarina, as she saw Mr. Eastman _putting down_ his

third biscuit.

"Why, as to that, I think we ought to eat as much as the appetite calls

for," answered Mr. Eastman.

"Yes; if the appetite is not depraved by indulgence."

"Yes; it is an awful thing to pinch in eating," said Deborah.

"I never knew one to sin in doing it," said Miss Norwood. "But many

individuals and whole families make themselves excessively

uncomfortable, and often incur disease, by eating too much. There is,

besides, a waste of food, and of labor in preparing it. In such

families, there is a continual round of eating, cooking, and sleeping,

with the female portion; and no time for rest, recreation, or literary

pursuits."

"I have told our folks a great many times, that I did not believe that

you lived by eating, over to your house," said Mr. Eastman. "I have been

over that way before our folks got breakfast half ready; and your men

would be out to work, and you women folks sewing, reading, or watering

plants, or weeding your flower garden. I don't see how you manage."

"We do not find it necessary to manage at all, our breakfasts are so

simple. We have only to make cocoa, and arrange the breakfast."

"Don't you cook meat for breakfast?" asked Mrs. Eastman.

"Never; our breakfast invariably consists of cocoa, or water, cold white

bread and butter."

"Why, our men folks will have meat three times a day--warm, morning and

noon, and cold at night. We have warm bread for breakfast and supper,

always. When they work very hard, they want luncheon at ten, and again

at three. I often tell our folks that it is step, step, from morning

till night."

"Of course, you find no time to read," said Miss Norwood.

"No; but I shouldn't mind this, if I didn't get so dreadful tired. I

often tell our folks that it is wearing me all out," said Mrs. Eastman,

in a really aggrieved tone.

"Well, it is quite the fashion to starve, now-a-days, I know; but it is

an awful sin," said Mr. Eastman.

Miss Norwood saw that she might as well spend her time in rolling a

stone up hill, as in attempting to convince him of fallacy in reasoning.

"Clarina," said she, "did you ask Frederic to call for the other volume

of the 'Alexandrian?'"

"Why, I should think that you had books enough at home, without

borrowing," said Mr. Eastman, stopping by the way to rinse down his

fifth dough-nut. "For my part, I find no time for reading anything but

the Bible." And the deluded man started up with a gulp and a grunt. He

had eaten enough for three full meals, had spent time enough for eating

one meal, and reading several pages; yet he left the room with a smile,

so self-satisfied in its expression, that it was quite evident that he

thought himself the wisest man in New Hampshire, except Daniel Webster.

This is rather a sad picture of life among farmers. But many of my

readers will bear me witness that it is a correct one, as far as it

goes. Many of them have left their homes, because, in the quaint but

appropriate language of Mrs. Eastman, it was "step, step, from morning

till night." But there are other and brighter pictures, of more

extensive application, _perhaps_, than that already drawn.

Captain Norwood had as large a farm as Mr. Eastman. His family was as

large, yet the existence of the female portion was paradisiacal,

compared with that of Mrs. Eastman and her daughters. Their meals were

prepared with the most perfect elegance and simplicity. Their table

covers and their China were of the same dazzling whiteness. Their

cutlery, from the unfrequency of its contact with acids, with a little

care, wore a constant polish. Much prettier these, than the dark

oiled-cloth cover and corresponding _et cetera_ of table appendages, at

Mr. Eastman's. Mrs. Norwood and her daughters carried _system_ into

every department of labour. While one was preparing breakfast, another

put things in nice order all about the house, and another was occupied

in the dairy.

Very different was it at Mr. Eastman's. Deborah must get potatoes, and

set Mary to washing them, while she made bread. Mrs. Eastman must cut

brown bread, and send Deborah for butter, little Sally for sauce, and

Susan for pickles. One must cut the meat and set it to cook; then it was

"Mary, have you seen to that meat? I expect it wants turning. Sally, run

and salt this side, before she turns it." And then, in a few moments,

"Debby, do look to that meat. I believe that it is all burning up. How

do them cakes bake? look, Sally. My goodness! all burnt to a cinder,

nearly. Debby, why didn't you see to them?"

"La, mother! I thought Mary was about the lot, somewhere. Where is she,

I wonder?"

"In the other room, reading, I think likely. Oh! I forgot: I sent her

after some coffee to burn."

"What! going to burn coffee now? We sha'nt have breakfast to-day."

"You fuss, Debby. We can burn enough for breakfast in five minutes. I

meant to have had a lot burned yesterday; but we had so much to do.

There, Debby, you see to the potatoes. I wonder what we are going to

have for dinner."

"Don't begin to talk about dinner yet, for pity's sake," said Deborah.

"Sally, you ha'nt got the milk for the coffee. Susan, go and sound for

the men folks: breakfast will be ready by the time they get here. Mary,

put the pepper, vinegar, and salt on the table, if you can make room for

them."

"Yes; and Debby, you go and get one of them large pumpkin pies," said

Mrs. Eastman. "And Sally, put the chairs round the table; the men folks

are coming upon the run."

"Oh, mother! I am so glad you are going to have pie! I do love it _so_

well," said Susan, seating herself at the table, without waiting for her

parents.

Such a _rush!_ such a clatter of knives, forks, plates, cups, and

saucers! It "realized the phrase of ----," and was absolutely appalling

to common nerves.

After breakfast came the making of beds and sweeping, baking and boiling

for dinner, making and turning cheese, and so on, until noon. Occasional

bits of leisure were _seized_ in the afternoon, for sewing and knitting

that must be done, and for visiting.

The situation of such families is most unpleasant, but it is not

irremediable. Order may be established and preserved in the entire

household economy. They may restrict themselves to a simpler system of

dietetics. With the money and time thus saved, they may purchase books,

subscribe for good periodicals, and find ample leisure to read them.

Thus their intellects will be expanded and invigorated. They will have

opportunities for social intercourse, for the cultivation of

friendships; and thus their affections will be exercised and warmed.

Then, happy the destiny of the farmer, the farmer's wife, and the

farmer's daughters.

A. F. D.

A WEAVER'S REVERIE.

It was a sunny day, and I left for a few moments the circumscribed spot

which is my appointed place of labor, that I might look from an

adjoining window upon the bright loveliness of nature. Yes, it was a

sunny day; but for many days before, the sky had been veiled in gloomy

clouds; and joyous indeed was it to look up into that blue vault, and

see it unobscured by its sombre screen; and my heart fluttered, like a

prisoned bird, with its painful longings for an unchecked flight amidst

the beautiful creation around me.

Why is it, said a friend to me one day, that the factory girls write so

much about the beauties of nature?

Oh! why is it, (thought I, when the query afterwards recurred to me,)

why is it that visions of thrilling loveliness so often bless the

sightless orbs of those whose eyes have once been blessed with the power

of vision?

Why is it that the delirious dreams of the famine-stricken, are of

tables loaded with the richest viands, or groves, whose pendent boughs

droop with their delicious burdens of luscious fruit?

Why is it that haunting tones of sweetest melody come to us in the deep

stillness of midnight, when the thousand tongues of man and nature are

for a season mute?

Why is it that the desert-traveller looks forward upon the burning

boundless waste, and sees pictured before his aching eyes, some verdant

oasis, with its murmuring streams, its gushing founts, and shadowy

groves--but as he presses on with faltering step, the bright _mirage_

recedes, until he lies down to die of weariness upon the scorching

sands, with that isle of loveliness before him?

Oh tell me why is this, and I will tell why the factory girl sits in the

hour of meditation, and thinks--not of the crowded clattering mill, nor

of the noisy tenement which is her home, nor of the thronged and busy

street which she may sometimes tread,--but of the still and lovely

scenes which, in bygone hours, have sent their pure and elevating

influence with a thrilling sweep across the strings of the spirit-harp,

and then awaken its sweetest, loftiest notes; and ever as she sits in

silence and seclusion, endeavoring to draw from that many-toned

instrument a strain which may be meet for another's ear, that music

comes to the eager listener like the sound with which the sea-shell

echoes the roar of what was once its watery home. All her best and

holiest thoughts are linked with those bright pictures which call them

forth, and when she would embody them for the instruction of others, she

does it by a delineation of those scenes which have quickened and

purified her own mind.

It was this love of nature's beauties, and a yearning for the pure

hallowed feelings which those beauties had been wont to call up from

their hidden springs in the depths of the soul, to bear away upon their

swelling tide the corruption which had gathered, and I feared might

settle there,--it was this love, and longing, and fear, which made my

heart throb quickly, as I sent forth a momentary glance from the factory

window.

I think I said there was a cloudless sky; but it was not so. It was

clear, and soft, and its beauteous hue was of "the hyacinth's deep

blue"--but there was one bright solitary cloud, far up in the cerulean

vault; and I wished that it might for once be in my power to lie down

upon that white, fleecy couch, and there, away and alone, to dream of

all things holy, calm, and beautiful. Methought that better feelings,

and clearer thoughts than are often wont to visit me, would there take

undisturbed possession of my soul.

And might I not be there, and send my unobstructed glance into the

depths of ether above me, and forget for a little while that I had ever

been a foolish, wayward, guilty child of earth? Could I not then cast

aside the burden of error and sin which must ever depress me here, and

with the maturity of womanhood, feel also the innocence of infancy? And

with that sense of purity and perfection, there would necessarily be

mingled a feeling of sweet uncloying bliss--such as imagination may

conceive, but which seldom pervades and sanctifies the earthly heart.

Might I not look down from my aerial position, and view this little

world, and its hills, valleys, plains, and streamlets, and its thousands

of busy inhabitants, and see how puerile and unsatisfactory it would

look to one so totally disconnected from it? Yes, there, upon that soft

snowy cloud could I sit, and gaze upon my native earth, and feel how

empty and "vain are all things here below."

But not motionless would I stay upon that aerial couch. I would call

upon the breezes to waft me away over the broad blue ocean, and with

nought but the clear bright ether above me, have nought but a boundless,

sparkling, watery expanse below me. Then I would look down upon the

vessels pursuing their different courses across the bright waters; and

as I watched their toilsome progress, I should feel how blessed a thing

it is to be where no impediment of wind or wave might obstruct my onward

way.

But when the beams of a midday sun had ceased to flash from the foaming

sea, I should wish my cloud to bear away to the western sky, and

divesting itself of its snowy whiteness, stand there, arrayed in the

brilliant hues of the setting sun. Yes, well should I love to be

stationed there, and see it catch those parting rays, and, transforming

them to dyes of purple and crimson, shine forth in its evening vestment,

with a border of brightest gold. Then could I watch the king of day as

he sinks into his watery bed, leaving behind a line of crimson light to

mark the path which led him to his place of rest.

Yet once, O only once, should I love to have that cloud pass on--on--on

among the myriads of stars; and leaving them all behind, go far away

into the empty void of space beyond. I should love, for once, to be

_alone_. Alone! where _could_ I be alone? But I would fain be where

there is no other, save the INVISIBLE, and there, where not even one

distant star should send its feeble rays to tell of a universe beyond,

there would I rest upon that soft light cloud, and with a fathomless

depth below me, and a measureless waste above and around me, there would

I----

"Your looms are going without filling," said a loud voice at my elbow;

so I ran as fast as possible and changed my shuttles.

ELLA.

OUR DUTY TO STRANGERS.

"Deal gently with the stranger's heart."--MRS. HEMANS.

The factory girl has trials, as every one of the class can testify. It

was hard for thee to leave

"Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land.

The voices of thy hindred band,"--

was it not, my sister? Yes, there was a burden at your heart as you

turned away from father, mother, sister, and brother, to meet the cold

glance of strange stage-companions. There was the mournfulness of the

funeral dirge and knell, in the crack of the driver's whip, and in the

rattling of the coach-wheels. And when the last familiar object receded

from your fixed gaze, there was a sense of utter desolation at your

heart. There was a half-formed wish that you could lie down on your own

bed, and die, rather than encounter the new trials before you.

Home may be a capacious farm-house, or a lowly cottage, it matters not.

It is _home_. It is the spot around which the dearest affections and

hopes of the heart cluster and rest. When we turn away, a thousand

tendrils are broken, and they bleed.--Lovelier scenes _might_ open

before us, but that only "the loved are lovely." Yet until new

interests are awakened, and new loves adopted, there is a constant

heaviness of heart, more oppressive than can be imagined by those who

have never felt it.

The "kindred band" may be made up of the intelligent and elegant, or of

the illiterate and vulgar; it matters not. Our hearts yearn for their

companionship. We would rejoice with them in health, or watch over them

in sickness.

In all seasons of trial, whether from sickness, fatigue, unkindness, or

_ennui_, there is one bright _oasis_. It is

----"the hope of return to the mother, whose smile

Could dissipate sadness and sorrow beguile;

To the father, whose glance we've exultingly met--

And no meed half so proud hath awaited us yet;

To the sister whose tenderness, breathing a charm,

No distance could lessen, no danger disarm;

To the friends, whose remembrances time cannot chill,

And whose home in the heart not the stranger can fill."

This hope is invaluable; for it,

"like the ivy round the oak,

Clings closer in the storm."

Alas! that there are those to whom this hope comes not! those whose

affections go out, like Noah's dove, in search of a resting place; and

return without the olive-leaf.

"Death is in the world," and it has made hundreds of our factory girls

orphans. Misfortunes are abroad, and they have left as many destitute of

homes. This is a melancholy fact, and one that calls loudly for the

sympathy and kind offices of the more fortunate of the class. It is not

a light thing to be alone in the world. It is not a light thing to meet

only neglect and selfishness, when one longs for disinterestedness and

love. Oh, then, let us

"Deal gently with the stranger's heart,"

especially if the stranger be a destitute orphan. Her garb may be

homely, and her manners awkward; but we will take her to our heart, and

call her sister. Some glaring faults may be hers; but we will remember

"who it is that maketh us to differ," and if possible, by our kindness

and forbearance, win her to virtue and peace.

There are many reasons why we should do this. It is a part of "pure and

undefiled religion" to "visit the fatherless in their afflictions." And

"mercy is twice blest; blest in him that gives, and him that takes." In

the beautiful language of the simple Scotch girl, "When the hour o'

trouble comes, that comes to mind and body, and when the hour o' death

comes, that comes to high and low, oh, my leddy, then it is na' what we

ha' done for ourselves, but what we ha' done for others, that we think

on maist pleasantly."

E.

ELDER ISAAC TOWNSEND.

Elder Townsend was a truly meek and pious man. He was not what is called

_learned_, being bred a farmer, and never having had an opportunity of

attending school but very little--for school privileges were very

limited when Elder Townsend was young. His chief knowledge was what he

had acquired by studying the Bible (which had been his constant

companion from early childhood,) and a study of human nature, as he had

seen it exemplified in the lives of those with whom he held intercourse.

Although a Gospel preacher for more than forty years, he never received

a salary. He owned a farm of some forty acres, which he cultivated

himself; and when, by reason of ill health, or from having to attend to

pastoral duties, his farming-work was not so forward as that of his

neighbors, he would ask his parishioners to assist him for a day, or a

half-day, according to his necessities. As this was the only pay he ever

asked for his continuous labors with them, he never received a denial,

and a pittance so trifling could not be given grudgingly. The days which

were spent on Elder Townsend's farm were not considered by his

parishioners as days of toil, but as holydays, from whose recreations

they were sure to return home richly laden with the blessings of their

good pastor.

The sermons of Elder T. were always _extempore_; and if they were not

always delivered with the elocution of an orator, they were truly

excellent, inasmuch as they consisted principally of passages of

Scripture, judiciously selected, and well connected.

The Elder's intimate knowledge of his flock, and their habits and

propensities, their joys and their sorrows, together with his thorough

acquaintance with the Scriptures, enabled him to be ever in readiness to

give reproof or consolation (as need might be,) in the language of Holy

Writ. His reproofs were received with meekness, and the recipients would

resolve to profit thereby; and when he offered the cup of consolation,

it was received with gratitude by those who stood in need of its healing

influences. But when he dwelt on the loving-kindness of our God, all

hearts would rejoice and be glad. Often, while listening to his

preaching, have I sat with eyes intently gazing on the speaker, until I

fancied myself transported back to the days of the "beloved disciple,"

and on the Isle of Patmos was hearing him say, "My little children, love

one another."

When I last saw Elder Townsend, his head was white with the frosts of

more than seventy winters. It is many years since. I presume, ere this,

he sleeps beneath the turf on the hill-side, and is remembered among the

worthies of the olden time.

B. N.

HARRIET GREENOUGH.

CHAPTER I.

"The day is come I never thought to see,

Strange revolutions in my farm and me."

DRYDEN'S VIRGIL.

Harriet Greenough had always been thought a spoiled child, when she left

home for Newburyport. Her father was of the almost obsolete class of

farmers, whose gods are their farms, and whose creed--"Farmers are the

most independent folks in the world." This latter was none the less

absolute in its power over Mr. Greenough, from its being entirely

traditionary. He often repeated a vow made in early life, that he would

never wear other than "homespun" cloth. When asked his reasons, he

invariably answered, "Because I won't depend on others for what I can

furnish myself. Farmers are the most independent class of men; and I

mean to be the most independent of farmers."--If for a moment he felt

humbled by the presence of a genteel well-educated man, it was only for

a moment. He had only to recollect that farmers are the most independent

class of people, and his head resumed its wonted elevation, his manner

and tone their usual swaggering impudence.

While at school he studied nothing but reading, spelling, arithmetic,

and writing. Latterly, his reading had been restricted to a chapter in

the Bible per day, and an occasional examination of the almanac. He did

not read his Bible from devotional feeling--for he had none; but that he

might puzzle the "book men" of the village with questions like the

following:--"Now I should like to have you tell me one thing: How

_could_ Moses write an account of his own death and burial? Can you just

tell me where Cain and Abel found their wives? What verse is there in

the Bible that has but two words in it? Who was the father of Zebedee's

children? How many chapters has the New Testament?--How many verses, and

how many words?" Inability or disinclination to answer any and all of

these, made the subject of a day's laughter and triumph.

Nothing was so appalling to him as innovations on old customs and

opinions. "These notions, that the earth turns round, and the sun stands

still; that shooting stars are nothing but little meteors, I think they

call them, are turning the heads of our young folks," he was accustomed

to say to Mr. Curtis, the principal of the village academy, every time

they met. "And then these new-fangled books, filled with jaw-cracking

words and falsehoods, chemistry, philosophy, and so on--why, I wonder if

they ever made any man a better farmer, or helped a woman to make better

butter and cheese? Now, Mr. Curtis, it is _my_ opinion that young folks

had better read their Bibles more. Now I'll warrant that not one in ten

can tell how many chapters there are in it. My father knew from the time

he was eight till he was eighty. Can _you_ tell, Mr. Curtis?"

Mr. Curtis smiled a negative; and Mr. Greenough went laughing about all

day. Indeed, for a week, the first thing that came after his blunt

salutation, was a loud laugh; and in answer to consequent inquiries

came the recital of his victory over "the great Mr. Curtis." He would

not listen a moment to arguments in favor of sending Harriet to the

academy, or of employing any other teachers in his district than old

Master Smith, and Miss Heath, a superanuated spinster.

Mrs. Greenough was a mild creature, passionless and gentle in her nature

as a lamb. She acquiesced in all of her husband's measures, whether from

having no opinions of her own, or from a deep and quiet sense of duty

and propriety, no one knew. Harriet was their pet. As rosy, laughing,

and healthy as a Hebe, she flew from sport to sport all the day long.

Her mother attempted, at first, to check her romping propensity; but it

delighted her father, and he took every opportunity to strengthen and

confirm it. He was never so happy as when watching her swift and eager

pursuit of a butterfly; never so lavish of his praises and caresses as

when she succeeded in capturing one, and all breathless with the chase,

bore her prize to him.

"Do stay in the house with poor ma, to-day, darling; she is very

lonely," her mother would say to her, as she put back the curls from the

beautiful face of her child, and kissed her cheek. One day a tear was in

her eye and a sadness at her heart; for she had been thinking of the

early childhood of her Harriet, when she turned from father, little

brother, playthings and all, for her. Harriet seemed to understand her

feelings; for instead of answering her with a spring and laugh as usual,

she sat quietly down at her feet, and laid her head on her lap. Mr.

Greenough came in at this moment.

"How? What does this mean, wife and Hatty?" said he.--"Playing the baby,

Hat? Wife, this won't do. Harriet has your beauty; and to this I have no

objections, if she has my spirits and independence. Come, Hatty; we want

you to help us make hay to-day; and there are lots of butterflies and

grasshoppers for you to catch. Come," he added; for the child still kept

her eyes on her mother's face, as if undecided whether to go or stay.

"Come, get your bonnet--no; you may go without it. You look too much

like a village girl. You must get more tan."

"Shall I go, ma?" Harriet asked, still clinging to her mother's dress.

"Certainly, if pa wishes it," answered Mrs. Greenough with a strong

effort to speak cheerfully.

She went, and from that hour Mrs. Greenough passively allowed her to

follow her father and his laborers as she pleased; to rake hay, ride in

the cart, husk corn, hunt hen's eggs, jump on the hay, play ball,

prisoner, pitch quoits, throw dice, cut and saw wood, and, indeed, to

run into every amusement which her active temperament demanded. She went

to school when she pleased; but her father was constant in his hints

that her spirits and independence were not to be destroyed by poring

over books. She was generally left to do as she pleased, although she

was often pleased to perpetrate deeds, for which her school-mates often

asserted they would have been severely chastised. There was an

expression of fun and good humor lurking about in the dimples of her fat

cheeks and in her deep blue eye, that effectually shielded her from

reproof. Master Smith had just been accused of partiality to her, and he

walked into the school considerably taller than usual, all from his

determination to punish Harriet before night. He was not long in

detecting her in a rogueish act. He turned from her under the pretence

of looking some urchins into silence, and said, with uncommon sternness

and precision, "Harriet Greenough, walk out into the floor." Harriet

jumped up, shook the hands of those who sat near her, nodded a farewell

to others, and walked gaily up to the master. He dreaded meeting her

eye; for he knew that his gravity would desert him in such a case. She

took a position behind him, and in a moment the whole house was in an

uproar of laughter. Master Smith turned swiftly about on his heel, and

confronted the culprit. She only smiled and made him a most graceful

courtesy. This was too much for his risibles. He laughed almost as

heartily as his pupils.

"Take your seat, you, he! he! you trollop, you, he! he! and I will

settle with you by and bye," he said.

She only thanked him, and then returned to her sport.

So she passed on. When sixteen, she was a very child in everything but

years and form. Her forehead was high and full, but a want of taste and

care in the arrangement of her beautiful hair destroyed its effect. Her

complexion was clear, but sunburnt. Her laugh was musical, but one

missed that _tone_ which distinguishes the laugh of a happy feeling girl

of sixteen from that of a child of mere frolic. As to her form, no one

knew what it was; for she was always putting herself into some strange

but not really uncouth attitude; and besides, she could never _stop_ to

adjust her dress properly.

Such was Harriet Greenough, when a cousin of hers paid them a visit on

her return to the Newburyport mills. She was of Harriet's age; but one

would have thought her ten years her senior, judging from her superior

dignity and intelligence. Her father died when she was a mere child,

after a protracted illness, which left them penniless. By means of

untiring industry, and occasional gifts from her kind neighbors, Mrs.

Wood succeeded in keeping her children at school, until her daughter was

sixteen and her son fourteen. They then went together to Newburyport,

under the care of a very amiable girl who had spent several years there.

They worked a year, devoting a few hours every day to study; then

returned home, and spent a year at school in their native village.

They were now on their return to the mills. It was arranged that at the

completion of the present year Charles should return to school, and

remain there until fitted for the study of a profession, if Jane's

health was spared that she might labor for his support.

Jane was a gentle affectionate girl; and there was a new feeling at the

heart of Harriet from the day in which she came under her influence.

Before the week had half expired which Jane was to spend with them,

Harriet, with characteristic decision, avowed her determination to

accompany her. Her father and mother had opposed her will in but few

instances. In these few she had laughed them into an easy compliance. In

the present case she found her task a more difficult one. But they

consented at last; and with her mother's tearful blessing, and an

injunction from her father not to bear any insolence from her employers,

but to remember always that she was the independent daughter of an

independent farmer, she left her home.

CHAPTER II.

A year passed by, and our Harriet was a totally changed being, in

intellect and deportment. Her cousins boarded in a small family, that

they might have a better opportunity of pursuing their studies during

their leisure hours. She was their constant companion. At first she did

not open a book; and numberless were the roguish artifices she employed

to divert the attention of her cousins from theirs. They often laid them

aside for a lively chat with her; and then urged her to study with

them. She loved them ardently. To her affection she at last yielded, and

not to any anticipations of pleasure or profit in the results, for she

had been _educated_ to believe that there was none of either.

Charles had been studying Latin and mathematics; Jane, botany, geology,

and geography of the heavens. She instructed Charles in these latter

sciences; he initiated her as well as he might, into the mysteries of

_hic, hæc, hoc_, and algebra. At times of recitation, Harriet sat and

laughed at their "queer words." When she accompanied them in their

search for flowers, she amused herself by bringing mullen, yarrow, and,

in one instance, a huge sunflower.--When they had traced constellations,

she repeated to them a satire on star-gazers, which she learned of her

father.

The _histories_ of the constellations and flowers first arrested her

attention, and kindled a romance which had hitherto lain dormant. A new

light was in her eye from that hour, and a new charm in her whole

deportment. She commenced study under very discouraging circumstances.

Of this she was deeply sensible. She often shed a few tears as she

thought of her utter ignorance, then dashed them off, and studied with

renewed diligence and success. She studied two hours every morning

before commencing labor and until half past eleven at night. She took

her book and her dinner to the mill, that she might have the whole

intermission for study. This short season, with the reflection she gave

during the afternoon, was sufficient for the mastery of a hard lesson.

She was close in her attendance at the sanctuary. She joined a Bible

class; and the teachings there fell with a sanctifying influence on her

spirit, subduing but not destroying its vivacity, and opening a new

current to her thoughts and affections. Although tears of regret for

misspent years often stole down her cheeks, she assured Jane that she

was happier at the moment than in her hours of loudest mirth.

Her letters to her friends had prepared them for a change, but not for

_such_ a change--so great and so happy. She was now a very beautiful

girl, easy and graceful in her manners, soft and gentle in her

conversation, and evidently conscious of her superiority, only to feel

more humble, more grateful to Heaven, her dear cousins, her minister,

her Sabbath school teacher, and other beloved friends, who by their

kindness had opened such new and delightful springs of feeling in her

heart.

She flung her arms around her mother's neck, and wept tears of gratitude

and love. Mrs. Greenough felt that she was no longer alone in the world;

and Mr. Greenough, as he watched them--the wife and the

daughter--inwardly acknowledged that there was that in the world dearer

to his heart than his farm and his independence.

Amongst Harriet's baggage was a rough deal box. This was first opened.

It contained her books, a few minerals and shells. There were fifty

well-selected volumes, besides a package of gifts for her father,

mother, and brother.--There was no book-case in the house; and the

kitchen shelf was full of old almanacs, school books, sermons, and jest

books. Mr. Greenough rode to the village, and returned with a rich

secretary, capacious enough for books, minerals, and shells. He brought

the intelligence, too, that a large party of students and others were to

spend the evening with them. Harriet's heart beat quick, as she thought

of young Curtis, and wondered if he was among the said students.--Before

she left Bradford, struck with the beauty and simplicity of her

appearance, he sought and obtained an introduction to her, but left her

side, after sundry ineffectual attempts to draw her into conversation,

disappointed and disgusted. He _was_ among Harriet's visitors.

"Pray, Miss Curtis, what may be your opinion of our belle, Miss

Greenough?" asked young Lane, on the following morning, as Mr. Curtis

and his sister entered the hall of the academy.

"Why, I think that her improvement has been astonishingly rapid during

the past year; and that she is now a really charming girl."

"Has she interfered with your heart, Lane?" asked his chum.

"As to that, I do not feel entirely decided. I think I shall renew my

call, however--nay, do not frown, Curtis; I was about to add, if it be

only to taste her father's delicious melons, pears, plums, and apples."

Curtis blushed slightly, bowed, and passed on to the school room. He

soon proved that he cared much less for Mr. Greenough's fruit than for

his daughter: for the fruit remained untasted if Harriet was at his

side. He was never so happy as when Mr. Greenough announced his purpose

of sending Harriet to the academy two or three years. Arrangements were

made accordingly, and the week before Charles left home for college,

she was duly installed in his father's family.

She missed him much; but the loss of his society was partially

counterbalanced by frequent and brotherly letters from him, and by

weekly visits to her home, which by the way, is becoming quite a

paradise under her supervision.--She has been studying painting and

drawing. Several well-executed specimens of each adorn the walls and

tables of their sitting-room and parlor. She has no "regular built"

centre-table, but in lieu thereof she has removed from the garret an old

round table that belonged to her grandmother. This she has placed in the

centre of the sitting-room; and what with its very pretty covering

(which falls so near the floor as to conceal its uncouth legs), and its

books, it forms no mean item of elegance and convenience.

Mr. Greenough and his help have improved a few leisure days in removing

the trees that entirely concealed the Merrimac. By the profits resulting

from their sale, he has built a neat and tasteful enclosure for his

house and garden. This autumn shade-trees and shrubbery are to be

removed to the yard, and fruit-trees and vines to the garden. Next

winter a summer-house is to be put in readiness for erection in the

spring.

All this, and much more, Mr. Greenough is confident he can accomplish,

without neglecting his _necessary_ labors, or the course of reading he

has marked out, "by and with the advice" of his wife and Harriet. And

more, and better still, he has decided that his son George shall attend

school, at least two terms yearly. He will board at home, and will be

accompanied by his cousin Charles, whom Mr. Greenough has offered to

board gratis, until his education is completed. By this generosity on

the part of her uncle, Jane will be enabled to defray other expenses

incidental to Charles's education, and still have leisure for literary

pursuits.

Most truly might Mr. Greenough say,--

"The day is come I never thought to see,

Strange revolutions in my farm and me."

A.

[Illustration: Decoration]

FANCY.

O Swiftly flies the shuttle now,

Swift as an arrow from the bow:

But swifter than the thread is wrought,

Is soon the flight of busy thought;

For Fancy leaves the mill behind,

And seeks some novel scenes to find.

And now away she quickly hies--

O'er hill and dale the truant flies.

Stop, silly maid! where dost thou go?

Thy road may be a road of woe:

Some hand may crush thy fairy form,

And chill thy heart so lately warm.

"Oh no," she cries in merry tone,

"I go to lands before unknown;

I go in scenes of bliss to dwell,

Where ne'er is heard a factory bell."

Away she went; and soon I saw,

That Fancy's wish was Fancy's law;

For where the leafless trees were seen,

And Fancy wished them to be green,

Her wish she scarcely had made known,

Before green leaves were on them grown.

She spake--and there appear'd in view,

Bright manly youths, and maidens, too.

And Fancy called for music rare--

And music filled the ravished air.

And then the dances soon began,

And through the mazes lightly ran

The footsteps of the fair and gay--

For this was Fancy's festal day.

On, on they move, a lovely group!

Their faces beam with joy and hope;

Nor dream they of a danger nigh,

Beneath their bright and sunny sky.

One of the fair ones is their queen,

For whom they raise a throne of green;

And Fancy weaves a garland now,

To place upon the maiden's brow;

And fragrant are the blooming flowers,

In her enchanted fairy-bowers.

And Fancy now away may slip,

And o'er the green-sward lightly skip,

And to her airy castle hie--

For Fancy hath a castle nigh.

The festal board she quick prepares,

And every guest the bounty shares,--

And seated at the festal board,

Their merry voices now are heard,

As each youth places to his lips,

And from the golden goblet sips

A draught of the enchanting wine

That came from Fancy's fruitful vine.

But hark! what sound salutes mine ear?

A distant rumbling now I hear.

Ah, Fancy! 'tis no groundless fear,

The rushing whirlwind draweth near!

Thy castle walls are rocking fast,--

The glory of thy feast is past;

Thy guests are now beneath the wave,--

Oblivion is their early grave,

Thy fairy bower has vanished--fled:

Thy leafy tree are withered--dead!

Thy lawn is now a barren heath,

Thy bright-eyed maids are cold in death!

Those manly youth that were so gay,

Have vanished in the self-same way!

Oh Fancy! now remain at home,

And be content no more to roam;

For visions such as thine are vain,

And bring but discontent and pain.

Remember, in thy giddy whirl,

That _I_ am but a factory girl:

And be content at home to dwell,

Though governed by a "factory bell."

FIDUCIA.

THE WIDOW'S SON.

Among the multitudes of females employed in our manufacturing

establishments, persons are frequently to be met with, whose lives are

interspersed with incidents of an interesting and even thrilling

character. But seldom have I met with a person who has manifested so

deep devotion, such uniform cheerfulness, and withal so determined a

perseverance in the accomplishment of a cherished object, as Mrs. Jones.

This inestimable lady was reared in the midst of affluence, and was

early married to the object of her heart's affection. A son was given

them, a sweet and lovely boy. With much joy they watched the development

of his young mind, especially as he early manifested a deep devotional

feeling, which was cultivated with the most assiduous attention.

But happiness like this may not always continue. Reverses came. That

faithful husband and affectionate father was laid on a bed of

languishing. Still he trusted in God; and when he felt that the time of

his departure approached, he raised his eyes, and exclaimed, "Holy

Father! Thou hast promised to be the widow's God and judge, and a Father

to the fatherless; into Thy care I commit my beloved wife and child.

Keep Thou them from evil, as they travel life's uneven journey. May

their service be acceptable in thy sight." He then quietly fell asleep.

Bitter indeed were the tears shed over his grave by that lone widow and

her orphan boy; yet they mourned not as those who mourn without hope.

Instead of devoting her time to unavailing sorrow, Mrs. Jones turned her

attention to the education of her son, who was then in his tenth year.

Finding herself in reduced circumstances, she nobly resolved to support

her family by her own exertions, and keep her son at school. With this

object, she procured plain needle-work, by which, with much economy, she

was enabled to live very comfortably, until Samuel had availed himself

of all the advantages presented him by the common schools and high

school. He was then ready to enter college--but how were the necessary

funds to be raised to defray his expenses?

This was not a new question to Mrs. Jones. She had pondered it long and

deeply, and decided upon her course; yet she had not mentioned it to her

son, lest it should divert his mind from his studies. But as the time

now rapidly approached when she was to carry her plan into operation,

she deemed it proper to acquaint Samuel with the whole scheme.

As they were alone in their neat little parlor, she aroused him from a

fit of abstraction, by saying, "Samuel, my dear son, before your father

died we solemnly consecrated you to the service of the Lord; and that

you might be the better prepared to labor in the gospel vineyard, your

father designed to give you a liberal education. He was called home; yet

through the goodness of our Heavenly Father, I have been enabled thus

far to prosecute his plan. It is now time for you to enter college, and

in order to raise the necessary funds, I have resolved to sell my little

stock of property, and engage as an operative in a factory."

At this moment, neighbor Hall, an old-fashioned, good-natured sort of a

man, entered very unceremoniously, and having heard the last sentence,

replied: "Ah! widow, you know that I do not like the plan of bringing up

our boys in idleness. But then Samuel is such a good boy, and so fond of

reading, that I think it a vast pity if he cannot read all the books in

the state. Yes, send him to college, widow; there he will have reading

to his heart's content. You know there is a gratuity provided for the

education of indigent and pious young men."

"Yes," said Mrs. Jones, "I know it; but I am resolved that if my son

ever obtains a place among the servants of the Prince of Peace, he shall

stand forth unchained by the bondage of men, and nobly exert the

energies of his mind as the Lord's freeman."

Samuel, who had early been taught the most perfect obedience, now

yielded reluctant consent to this measure.--Little time was requisite

for arrangements; and having converted her little effects into cash,

they who had never before been separated, now took an affectionate and

sorrowful leave of each other, and departed--the one to the halls of

learning, and the other to the power-looms.

We shall now leave Samuel Jones, and accompany his mother to Dover. On

her arrival, she assumed her maiden name, which I shall call Lucy

Cambridge; and such was her simplicity and quietness of deportment,

that she was never suspected of being other than she seemed. She readily

obtained a situation in a weave-room, and by industry and close

application, she quickly learned the grand secret of a successful

weaver--namely, "Keep the filling running, and the web clear."

The wages were not then reduced to the present low standard, and Lucy

transmitted to her son, monthly, all, saving enough to supply her

absolute necessities.

As change is the order of the day in all manufacturing places, so, in

the course of change, Lucy became my room-mate; and she whom I had

before admired, secured my love and ardent friendship. Upon general

topics she conversed freely; but of her history and kindred, never. Her

respectful deportment was sufficient to protect her from the inquiries

of curiosity; and thus she maintained her reserve until one evening when

I found her sadly perusing a letter. I thought she had been weeping. All

the sympathies of my nature were aroused, and throwing my arms around

her neck, I exclaimed, "Dear Lucy, does your letter bring you bad news,

or are any of your relatives"----I hesitated and stopped; for, thought

I, "perhaps she _has_ no relatives. I have never heard her speak of any:

she may be a lone orphan in the world." It was then she yielded to

sympathy, what curiosity had never ventured to ask. From that time she

continued to speak to me of her history and hopes. As I have selected

names to suit myself, she has kindly permitted me to make an extract

from her answer to that letter, which was as follows:

"My Dear Son,--in your letter of the 16th, you entreat me to leave the

mill, saying, 'I would rather be a scavenger, a wood-sawyer, or

anything, whereby I might honestly procure a subsistence for my mother

and myself, than have you thus toil, early and late. Mother, the very

thought is intolerable! O come away--for dearly as I love knowledge, I

cannot consent to receive it at the price of my mother's happiness.'

"My son, it is true that factory life is a life of toil--but I am

preparing the way for my only son to go forth as a herald of the cross,

to preach repentance and salvation to those who are out of the way. I am

promoting an object which was very near the heart of my dear husband.

Wherefore I desire that you will not again think of pursuing any other

course than the one already marked out for you; for you perceive that my

agency in promoting your success, forms an important part of _my_

happiness."

Often have I seen her eyes sparkle with delight as she mentioned her son

and his success. And after the labor and toil of attending "double work"

during the week, very often have I seen her start with all the

elasticity of youth, and go to the Post Office after a letter from

Samuel. And seldom did she return without one, for he was ever

thoughtful of his mother, who was spending her strength for him. And he

knew very well that it was essential to her happiness to be well

informed of his progress and welfare.

Nearly three years had elapsed since Lucy Cambridge first entered the

mill, when the stage stopped in front of her boarding house, and a young

gentleman sprang out, and inquired if Miss Lucy Cambridge was in.

Immediately they were clasped in each other's arms. This token of mutual

affection created no small stir among the boarders. One declared, "she

thought it very singular that such a pretty young man should fancy so

old a girl as Lucy Cambridge." Another said, "she should as soon think

that he would marry his mother."

Samuel Jones was tall, but of slender form. His hair, which was of the

darkest brown, covered an unusually fine head. His eyes, of a clear dark

grey, beaming with piety and intelligence, shed a lustre over his whole

countenance, which was greatly heightened by being overshadowed by a

deep, broad forehead.

He visited his mother at this time, to endeavor to persuade her to leave

the mill, and spend her time in some less laborious occupation. He

assured her that he had saved enough from the stock she had already sent

him, to complete his education. But she had resolved to continue in her

present occupation, until her son should have a prospect of a permanent

residence; and he departed alone.

Intelligence was soon conveyed to Lucy that a young student had preached

occasionally, and that his labors had been abundantly blessed. And ere

the completion of another year, Samuel Jones went forth a licentiate, to

preach the everlasting gospel.

I will not attempt to describe the transports of that widowed heart,

when she received the joyful tidings that her son had received a

unanimous call to take the pastoral charge of a small but well-united

society in the western part of Ohio, and only waited for her to

accompany him thither.