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in her adornings. Show me a flower opening only at night, and I will almost always show you one that has taken the white veil or affects a demure gray. She is equally judicious in her varnishing: the upper surfaces of millions of leaves-how glossy and polished ! Three coats of paint and six of varnish, by the palette of Reubens! But the lower surfaces, just as nice, but neither so green nor so glossy ; it would be of no use, and besides, they could not breathe freely through new paint.
Speaking of coloring : isn't it a little queer, or is it just as might be expected, that JOHN GALT should come all the way across the ocean, out of two thicknesses of London fog, to tell people “ to the manor born” what color an American sky is, in the summer, toward sunset? Or that they should marvel to learn it is an apple-green—the reflection of those great emeralds of earth, the Prairies, and those miles on miles of forest billows, that roll up and up, and fling
, their green spray into heaven ? Poetasters, poor fellows ! how blank they'd look—wouldn't they? should a law be passed, forbidding their babble about azure, blue, and cerulean skies; and they compelled, if they spoke at all, to say, 'Oh! apple-green heavens!'
Nature is not half so pains-taking with very early
morning as with the later day, and for the best reason in life, there's no body“ up to see.
So she makes it a neat steel-gray, inlaying a piece or two of pearl here and there, and looping up round the edges, a few odd bits of red ribbon. Noon she doesn't mind much. To be sure the coloring is rich and warm, but then, nothing like a master-piece. But come night, when the labor of the world is pretty near done, she lays herself out' in the West, exactly where every body would naturally be looking, and gathers there, the pearl and gold of morning, the glow and glory of noon, and the Tyrian tints of night. She spreads there, unbended rainbows from dismantled clouds; she gives there, patterns for the sea-shells to tint by a red and a white that set the pattern for York and Lancaster - themes for a thousand preachers, and songs for a thousand bards.
On such a night, in such a June, who has not sat, side by side, with some body, for all the world like “Jenny June?" May-be it was years ago; but it was some time. May-be you had quite forgotten it; but you will be the better for remembering it. Maybe she has “gone on before,” where it is June all the year long, and never January at all; but God forbid !
There it was, and then it was, and thus it was :
The Beautiful River.
Like a Foundling in slumber, the summer day lay
On the crimsoning threshold of Even,
In the days that have gone on before.
name, With the ones I shall welcome no more.
But it may be, the angels are culling them o'er,
For a Sabbath and Summer for ever, When the years shall forget the Decembers they wore,
And the shroud shall be woven, no, never!
As we gazed on the River unroll’d,
When it flowed through the Gate-way of gold !
Jenny June, then I said, let us linger no more,
On the banks of the beautiful River-
And we'll steal into Heaven together.
wandered with me, And the Sentry shall say, “Welcome back to the skies;
We have long been a-waiting for thee."
Oh! how sweetly she spoke, ere she uttered a word,
With that blush, partly hers, partly Even’s, And that tone, like the dream of a song we once heard,
As she whispered, 'That way is not Heaven’s;
Oh! that River is nothing like this !
Till it breaks into beauty and bliss.'
I am lingering yet, but I linger alone,
On the banks of the Beautiful River. "Tis the twin of that day, but the wave where it shone,
Bears the willow tree's shadow for ever!
Plowgḥ s bares and Sorrows.
GREAT grief in the clover just now, and every body but "Rachel, weeping for her children.” For a few days past, they have kept a thing, a machine, a monster, going in the Clover Field, that they call a “breaking-up plough," and it is well named for an ill business; inasmuch as it interferes with more domestic
arrangements, and destroys more domestic happiness and hopes, than “Consuelo ” or the Last War-in fact, it breaks up whole families.
Talk about “ beating swords into ploughshares !"
If this identical implement had been turned into a dozen good broad-swords, in these “piping times of peace,” it would have hastened the Millennium, at least one generation, in the Meadow back of the Orchard.
What John Rogers-like families of infant mice were orphaned; what snug and cozy little homes were destroyed, no body can tell. If all ploughmen were poets, and all poets were Burns-es, and all Burns-es
“But, mousie, thou art not alane,
Gang aft a-gley,
For promised joy,”
it wouldn't mend the matter; it wouldn't turn back the turf, nor restore the wee ones to their “mither" again.
Two of the beautifully dappled eggs of the Meadow lark were brought in by one of the boys,' this morning, thus left without local habitation;" furnishing, so it seems to us, an admirable escapement for the overflowing philanthropy that renders so many people so very miserable. Wouldn't “a nest for the nestless" society be just the thing! And if some