and son welcome to their home. Beyond was the housewife, busy with her household cares, clean of heart and conscience, the buckler and helpmeet of her husband. Down the lane came the children, trooping home after the cows, seeking as truant birds do the quiet of their home nest. And I saw the night come down on that house, falling gently as the wings of the unseen dove. And the old man while a startled bird called from the forest, and the trees were shrill with the cricket's cry, and the stars were swarming in the sky-got the family around him, and, taking the old Bible from the table, called them to their knees, the little baby hiding in the folds of its mother's dress, while he closed the record of that simple day by calling God's benediction on that family and on that home. And while I gazed, the vision of the marble Capitol faded. Forgotten were its treasures and its majesty, and I said, "Oh, surely here in the homes of the people are lodged at last the strength and the responsibility of this government, the hope and the promise of this republic." MY MOTHER PIERRE LOTI I was convalescing from one of the maladies peculiar to children, measles or whooping-cough, I know not which, and I had been ordered to remain in bed and to keep warm. By the rays of light that filtered in through the closed shutters, I divined the springtime warmth and brightness of the sun and air, and I felt sad that I had to remain behind the curtains of my tiny white bed; I wished to rise and go out; but most of all I had a desire to see my mother. The door opened and she entered, smiling. Ah, I remember it so well! I recall so distinctly how she looked as she stood upon the threshold of the door. And I remember that she brought in with her some of the sunlight and balminess of the spring day. I see again the expression of her face as she looked at me; and I hear the sound of her voice, and recall the details of her beloved dress, that would look funny and old-fashioned to me now. She had returned from her morning shopping, and she wore a straw hat trimmed with yellow roses, and a shawl of lilac barege (it was the period of the shawl) sprinkled with tiny bouquets of violets. Her dark curls (the poor beloved curls of to-day, alas! so thin and white) were at this time without a gray hair. There was about her the fragrance of the May day, and her face, as it looked that morning with its broad-brimmed hat, is still distinctly present with me. Besides the bouquet of pink hyacinths, she had brought me a tiny watering-pot, an exact imitation in miniature of the crockery ones so much used by the country people. As she leaned over my bed to embrace me, I felt as if every wish was gratified. I no longer had a desire to weep, nor to rise from my bed, nor to go out. She was with me, and that sufficed. Show me the man you honor. I know by that symptom, better than any other, what you are yourself. For you show me then what your ideal of manhood is, what kind of man you long inexpressibly to be. PLANT A TREE LUCY LARCOM He who plants a tree Plants a hope. Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope; So man's life must climb From the clods of time Unto heavens sublime. Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree, He who plants a tree Plants a comfort that will never cloy: Beautiful and strong, To whose shelter throng Creatures blithe with song. If thou couldst but know, thou happy tree, Of the bliss that shall inhabit thee. He who plants a tree He plants peace. |