APHORISMS.

'To waste their sweetness on the desert air.'

And who are the delighted occupants of this charming spot? The external appearance and condition of things too sadly betray their character. The man is coarse and vulgar in speech and in manners; untidy, careless, and uncleanly in person and dress; ignorant, lazy, and perhaps intemperate, with no thought beyond the gratification of his bodily wants and desires. Slang words and obscene are his daily vocabulary; selfishness his best-developed trait, and want the only incentive for his labor. His partner is like unto him, or worse, either by nature or association. Without taste, modesty, good sense, or natural refinement, she accompanies her dear Silas in his round of life, sympathizing in his lowness, his common feeling, and his common complaints—slatternly in her dress, rude in speech, coarse in manner, slovenly in her household duties. These two creatures, with their children, too often call themselves farmers, agriculturists, or tillers of thesoil. The poet Cowper well describes them in his poem representing 'the country boors' gathered together at tithing time at the residence of their country parson.

These thriftless people complain that they can make no money on their farms, and but barely a living; and for the very good reason that the man or woman who attempts to carry on a farm in this way through the year deserves no money or profit, nor barely a living from such a method of work.

He was born here. The new soil, at the time his father purchased it, gave him a living, and a good one, too; but this heir to the ancestral acres unfortunately married the slatternly daughter of a loafing neighbor, and their conservatism will not allow them to vary from the track of cultivation so well worn by his father, and forbids his learning any other methods, or accepting any new ideas from any source, though they may be sustained in the practical advantage gained thereby by the most successful farmers in his town, and may be learned any time from the Weekly agricultural gazette published at the capital of his State.

Book farming he scouts. The books upon agriculture, which every good farmer should read and study, and prove, will cost him perhaps ten dollars. By them his farm shall become his pride, his support, his wealth. But this dull man cannot, or will not, learn that in the dreaminess of his humdrum life, passed for thirty years or more upon his farm, capital, industry, science, thought, and study have been at work, and everything has been done, thus far, which can be done to make the earth more gladsome, and the hearts of the children of men more thankful to the Giver and Bestower of all our blessings. Away, then, with this cant, prejudice, and sneering about 'book farming.' As well cry out against book geography, or book philosophy, or book history, or book law. Chemistry, botany, entomology, and pomology unite the results of their researches in their various directions, and, while seeking apparently different ends, yet converge toward the grand centre of a systematic and scientific agriculture.

This laggard has not yet learned that it is his business and duty to cultivate the earth, and not exhaust it; to get two blades of grass this year where but one blade grew before; to gather thirty bushels of corn from the acre which produced but twenty bushels last year; to shear three pounds of wool off the sheep which five years ago gave but two pounds, and so on. He thinks to see how near the agricultural wind he can move and his sails not shake, or with how little labor he can carry his farm through the year and not starve. The poverty of the whole establishment, man and wife, and children, and stock, their uncleanliness and unhealthfulness, are but the just results of such a mode of living. They have their deserts. 'Ye cannot gather grapes of thorns, nor figs of thistles.'

This illustration may seem exaggerated, the example too extreme. We would that its semblance could not be seen in all wide America.

What power, what influences, or what teachings will work the change in the habits of life of those who thus pretend to cultivate the earth? What shall bring them to a clearer realization of their position, their duties, their opportunities, their prospects? This lethargy of ignorance, indifference, and laziness must be shaken off and laid aside in the immediate future, by study and education, by active interest and participation in every discovery or invention which benefits agriculture; by the exercise of sound judgment in the choice of stock or crops for the farm; by economy in the disposition of everything available upon the estate which may be brought into profitable employ; by thrift in every operation which concerns the success of the vocation as tillers of the soil, and by temperance and frugality in the habits and characterof the family living. 'Concentrate your labor, not scatter it; estimate duly the superior profit of a little farm well tilled, over a great farm half cultivated and half manured, overrun with weeds, and scourged with exhausting crops: so we shall fill our barns, double the winter fodder for our cattle and sheep, by the products of these waste meadows. Thus shall our cultivation become like that of England, more systematic, scientific, and exact.'

An Englishman belies one of the best traits of his national character if he denies himself all participation in rural life. It is a part of greatness to seek a gratification of this innate longing for 'the pursuit which is most conducive to virtue and happiness.' Edmund Burke, the patriotic and most philosophical statesman of England, writing to a friend in 1798, says:

'I have just made a push, with all I could collect of my own and the aid of my friends, to cast a little root in the country. I have purchased about six hundred acres of land in Buckinghamshire, about twenty-four miles from London. It is a place exceedingly pleasant, and I propose, God willing, to become a farmer in good earnest.'

Great skill, ingenuity, and success in cattle breeding, and in drainage, have resulted, in England, from a long series of experiments, extending through many years; and great and wonderful progress in the discovery and analysis of soils and manures. The scientific men of France and Germany have also added much to this invaluable information of how to get more bread and meat from the earth, and do much, in their researches in the direction of pomology and entomology, to increase the agricultural knowledge of the world. America gladly tenders her most gracious homage to these devoted men, and hastens to add her leaf to the chaplet which binds their brow. It is to their persistent efforts, to their unshaken faith, that 'agriculture has become elevated to the dignity of a science.'

This vocation of farming in good earnest, with success and profit, is not fun, but downright work. It is work, but no more persistent, constant, studious, or thoughtful than that which is demanded by any of the other callings in life, none of which has or can have such delightful compensations as this. Careful experiments should be made in chemistry, analyzing thereby each germ, plant, flower, and fruit into its component parts; analyzing the soil of our farms, and learning thereby its various wants, its value, and what crop it will best support, and of which it will give the largest yield; teaching us what manures are the most valuable, how prepared, and how to be used for the greatest profit. Botany and entomology can unite their labors and discover the germs and development of our grasses, and the insects which feed upon and destroy them; ornithology will teach us the habits of birds, and their value to us as protectors of our gardens and fields; and pomology will instruct us in the culture of fruit. Thus shall science and philosophy enlarge their duties and help the farmer in his devotion to his noble work. The public press shall herald far and wide each new discovery, each new suggestion, and the results of each new experiment, not in the technical language of the schools, but clothed in the simplest vernacular, which alone can make such study valuable to practical men.

Heretofore too much attention has been paid to the 'bread-producing capacity' of our country, to the neglect of its as necessary 'meat-producing capacity.' Hence much of our best bread-producing soil is becoming exhausted. The old tenants are leaving their once fertile fields, now poor in soil yielding comparatively nothing, and are emigrating to the West, beyond the banks of the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, trusting that the natural richness of the 'new hunting grounds' they seek and find is inexhaustible. This policy hasmade barren most of the State of Virginia, and has begun to tell sadly, in the diminished crops, upon the farming districts of Ohio, Indiana, and the other near Western States.

To be the successful introducer in a new country of a new and improved breed of cattle, requires capital, sound judgment, study, and patient toil. Much must be considered with reference to the peculiarities of the soil and climate, and of the animals, with regard to the object for which they are needed, whether the dairy, the plough, or the shambles. Happily, America is not without men whose wealth, intelligence, tastes, and sagacity have enabled them to perceive our present wants in this respect, and who have assisted in preparing for them. The great wealth of these gentlemen has been well expended in the outlay and risk attending the extensive and valuable importations of the best breeding cattle and sheep which they have made into this country from time to time from England and the continent of Europe. We are already reaping the advantages of the presence of the valuable animals embraced in these numerous importations. Scattered as they are throughout the country, infusing the best blood of Europe's choicest stock into our 'natives,' they so improve our cattle and sheep as to raise them to the highest degree of excellence and value. It is a circumstance of which every American may be proud, that Mr. Thorne has been so successful in breeding, from his imported stock, cattle which he has sent to England, and which have there borne off the prize as the best breeders in the world.

There are no indigenous breeds of either cattle or sheep in this country. The only animals of the bovine race found here when this continent was discovered were the buffalo and the musk ox. The 'natives' are a heterogenous mixture of various breeds, introduced from time to time for different purposes, and allowed to cross and recross, breed in-and-in, and mingle as chance or convenience dictated. The cattle and sheep were procured at different times from the continent of Europe, from England, and the Spanish West Indies, to supply the present wants of labor and food. The first cattle brought here are said to have been introduced by Columbus. The Spaniards afterward brought over others, from whence no doubt sprang the wild cattle of Texas and California. About the year 1553, the Portuguese took cattle to Newfoundland, of which, however, no traces now remain; and in the year 1600, Norman cattle were brought into Canada. In the year 1611, Sir Thomas Gates brought from Devonshire and Hertfordshire one hundred head of cattle into Jamestown; and thirteen years later, Thomas Winslow imported a bull and three heifers into Massachusetts. Thus was begun the importation of cattle for service and food into this country, which has continued to this day, not always, however, with the just discrimination as to the geographical and climatic peculiarities of the different animals which was and is necessary for the highest success of the movement. Happily, the various agricultural societies and publications, contributed to and supported by our most intelligent farmers, are diffusing wider and wider, each year, more scientific and thorough notions upon this subject of breeding, among our agricultural citizens. An admirable and carefully written article upon 'Select Breeds of Cattle and their Adaptation to the United States,' appeared in the United States Patent Office Report for 1861, to which we would call our readers' attention. It should be studied by every person interested in the economical prosperity of our country. It conveys, in a simple and perspicuous style, the results of the various experiments in breeding, in both England and America, which latterly have become so judicious and accurate as to be now almost based upon principle. Hereafter therewill be no apology, but that of stupidity and ignorance, for the farmers who neglect the most obvious rules of success in their occupation. The idea, now become well known, must become a fact with them, and they must raise no more poor horses or cattle or sheep, because it costs no more to raise good ones, which are much more profitable either for the dairy, for service, or for meat.

'Animals are to be looked upon as machines for converting herbage into money,' says Daniel Webster. 'The great fact to be considered is, how can we manage our farms so as to produce the largest crops, and still keep up the condition of our land, and, if possible, place it in course of gradual improvement? The success must depend in a great degree upon the animals raised and supported on the farm.'

It is auspicious for our country that the interest in sheep raising is becoming wider and deeper. 'The value of wool imported into the United States, in 1861 was nearly five millions of dollars. The value of imported manufactured woollen goods was more than twenty-eight millions of dollars, less by nearly ten millions of dollars than the importations of 1860. Taking the last three years as a basis of calculation, we have had an annual importation of from thirty-five to forty-five millions of pounds of manufactured and unmanufactured wool, being the product of thirteen millions of sheep.' The annual increase of population in the United States requires the wool from more than three million sheep. There is an annual deficiency of wool of from forty to fifty millions of pounds, so there need be no fear of glutting the market by our own production. The investigation might be extended much further. It remains for the farmers and legislators to see to it that we receive no detriment by the long continuance of this home demand without the home supply. The instrument is in their own hands.

Our farmers must teach their children the potential influence of kindness to dumb animals and to birds. By it they will conquer what of viciousness, ugliness, or wildness is often the character of their beasts of burden; and they will find, by the almost total eradication of the destructive flies and insects which are the scourge of their crops, the value of the lives of birds and toads to their farms. Setting aside for the present the consideration of the moral virtues which are thus inculcated, and which are so consistent with a proper devotion to this 'benign art of peace,' we mention a few facts which carry the argument for their worth in themselves.

The birds and toads devour insects, worms, and grubs, and wherever they are absent, grubs, worms, and insects are greatly multiplied, and the crops suffer. The harvests of France, in 1861, suffered so by the ravages of the insects which it is the function of certain birds to destroy, that the subject attracted the notice of the Government, and a commission was appointed to inquire into the matter and report what legislation was expedient. The commission had the aid of the experience of the best naturalists of France, M. St. Hilaire, M. Prevost, and others. Their preliminary report gives three classifications of birds: First, those which live exclusively upon insects and grubs; second, those which live partly upon grubs and partly upon grain, doing some damage, but providing an abundant compensation; third, the birds of prey, which are excepted from the category of benefactors, and are pronounced to be noxious, inasmuch as they live mostly upon the smaller birds. If the arrangements of nature were left wholly undisturbed, the result would be a wholesome equilibrium of destruction. The birds would kill so many insects that the insects could not kill too many plants. One class is a match for the other. A certain insect was found to lay two thousand eggs, but a single tomtit was found to eat twohundred thousand eggs a year. A swallow devours about five hundred insects a day, eggs and all. A sparrow's nest in the city of Paris was found to contain seven hundred pairs of the upper wings of cockchafers. It is easy to see what an excess of insect life is produced when a counterpoise like this is withdrawn; and the statistics collected show clearly to what an extent the balance of nature has been disturbed. Thus the value of wheat destroyed in a single season, in one department of the east of France, by thecicidomigie, has been estimated at eight hundred thousand dollars.

The cause of this is very soon told. The French eat the birds. The commissioners, in their report, present some curious statistics respecting the extent to which the destruction of birds in France has of late been carried. They state 'that there are great numbers of professional huntsmen, who are accustomed to kill from one hundred to two hundred birds daily; a single child has been known to come home at night with one hundred birds' eggs; and it is also calculated and reported that the number of birds' eggs destroyed annually in France is between eighty millions and one hundred millions. The result is that the small birds in that country are actually dying out; some species have already disappeared, while others are rapidly diminishing.' These facts contain valuable suggestions to our own countrymen. In this instance, as in many such like, observation is a better and more profitable master than experience.

Our farmers can increase the value of their estates, and bring pleasure and peace to their homes, by more special attention to the outward adornment of their dwellings; by cultivating a garden, planting orchards of the best selected fruit, and trees for shade, shelter, and ornament, about their farms and along the adjoining highway. He who plants a tree, thereby gives hostages to life, but he who cuts one down needlessly, is a Vandal, and deserves the execration of every honest man for all time. Learn not to value the bearded elm, 'the murmuring pines and the hemlocks,' the stalwart oak, or the beautiful maple, by cubic measure, but by the 'height of the great argument' they force upon us by their presence, their beauty, and their power. Plant for to-day, and for your children; plant 'for another age,' and thereby do 'a good office' to the coming generations of men. No man but is better for living in the presence of great trees. In one of those most delightful volumes of theSpectator, we find a paper, written by the pure and noble Joseph Addison, in which are well told the pleasures and profits of planting: 'It must,' he says, 'be confessed that this is none of those turbulent pleasures which are apt to gratify a man in the heats of youth; but if it be not so tumultuous, it is more lasting. Nothing can be more delightful than to entertain ourselves with prospects of our own making, and to walk under those shades which our own industry has raised. Amusements of this nature compose the mind, and lay at rest all those passions which are uneasy to the soul of man, besides that they naturally engender good thoughts, and dispose us to laudable contemplations.'

What charming associations linger about the homes of the great men of our history, whose tastes led them into the country! The grand old trees at 'Monticello,' at 'Ashland,' at 'Fort Hill,' at the 'Hermitage,' at 'Sunnyside,' at Cooperstown, at Marshfield, at Mount Vernon, seem to take upon themselves somewhat of 'the voice of the old hospitality' which graced their presence in the days that are passed; and the visitor now wanders with emotions of awe and sadness, in paths by copses and groves and streams, in those quiet retreats of nature, planted and preserved by the noble souls which loved them so wisely and so well.

Place the dwelling at a distance from the road, and in the position, if possible, from whence the best view of the whole farm can be obtained, mindful also of the charms which nature has spread before you, of mountain, or hill, or plain, or river, or sea. Plant the orchard on a slope toward the south, and not too far away. The barn and yard and outbuildings should be behind the house, or far enough away to protect the inmates from any annoyance therefrom. Let the approach to the house be by a long avenue, bordered by majestic trees, planted by your own hands. The lawn or garden should be well cared for in front. The buildings should be painted or whitewashed, and over the house may clamber and beautify it the woodbine, the jessamine, the honeysuckle, or the rose. What attachments to the homestead shall thus inweave themselves about the hearts of those whose interests and life are cast with it—and still more, of those who go forth from it, by taste, inclination, or bias, into the more bustling centres of competition and trade!

The garden should receive a careful and generous attention from the female portion of the household. Says Lord Bacon: 'God Almighty first planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man; without which buildings and palaces are but gross handyworks; and a man shall ever see that when ages grow to civility and elegance, men come to build stately sooner than to garden finely; as if gardening were the greater perfection. I do hold it in the royal ordering of gardens, there ought to be gardens for all the months in the year; in which severally things of beauty may be there in season.'

Following Lord Bacon's advice, let there be such a plan and arrangement of it, that it shall always be attractive, and yield a continual round of beauty through the year. Thus planted, the garden 'will inspire the purest and most refined pleasures, and cannot fail to promote every good affection.'

With all the advantages which the discoveries of natural science offer to the farmer of this century, it will little avail his successors unless he strives to educate his children. It is a very mistaken and lamentable notion—now, alas! too prevalent—that a liberal education is necessary alone to those who intend to enter upon a professional life. May the time be not far distant when farming may become a profession which takes its rank with the rest, if it does not lead them, in the public opinion. It was first supposed, very singularly, that the clergy ought only to be favored with an education in science and the classics; afterward the legal profession arose to sufficient dignity for it; and finally the physician, the guardian of our health, the student and philosopher of our bodies, arose to his noble position in the affairs of this life; while the agriculturist, the supporter of all we have or wish for here, the basis of our very civilization, is pushed aside or forgotten, and the demand upon him for the best culture of the earth altogether neglected. We have to congratulate ourselves that our Government has left it with each State by itself, whether, by the non-acceptance of its gift of public land as foundations for agricultural colleges, they will longer forego the opportunity of giving our young farmers a thorough scientific agricultural education. Until such a system of study can be arranged, let the farmers themselves commence the work of self-education. Agricultural societies and farmers' clubs, in which are gathered together the best farmers of the States, offer the best opportunity for intercommunication, thorough discussion and observation, and dissemination of all new discoveries, facts, or theories which may be made beneficial to all. These are the only means by which farmers can compare opinions and found sound judgments for their future labors. What would be the financialcondition of the other great economical interests, if merchants and owners never consulted together, nor marked the course and policy for their mutual guidance? The best agricultural papers and magazines which favor each farmer's peculiar interest, whether of stock, or fruit, or dairy, or grain, should be subscribed for and read, and preserved for future reference. Our best farmers can do a great deal, by contributing facts of their own knowledge, to raise the standard and worth of such periodicals. It only needs the feeling of personal interest in this matter to procure for each farmer whatever books are necessary to a perfect understanding of his special work. They must soon learn that the education of their children is the best investment they can make of the value of their services.

They should be taught, by example, by reading, and observation, the general success in life of those who plant and water and reap; and the general failure of those who attempt to gain an early or a late fortune in money by entering the marts of more active and more crowded competition. Most men fail to make the fortunes which the dreams of youth placed before them in such brilliant colors. In the present condition of the various professions, except farming, they only succeed whom fortune favors by special mental gifts or special personal friendships.

The peace, quiet, and contentment of a cheerful home; the charms of nature, free, unobstructed, lovely; the generous bestowal of an 'unostentatious hospitality;' the patient spirit of him who waits upon the accustomed return of the seasons; the attachment, the joy and pleasure of looking upon the broad acres, the shaded walks, the beautiful landscape, planted, improved, and protected by his own hand; the herds of favorite cattle and sheep which love his coming, the kindly tones of his voice, the gentle stroke of his hand; the respect paid by friends and neighbors to the venerable man who waits only the termination of a virtuous life; the faith in 'the sacred covenant, that while the earth remaineth, sunshine and shower, summer and winter, seed-time and harvest shall not fail,' are his who lives through long years devoted to this, rightly followed, noblest of all occupations—farming.

'He that goeth forth in humility, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.'

Innovations in religion are very commonly deprecated; but there is one in practice which might very safely be attempted, i.e., toobeythe gospel. This has been seldom done, even among those that bear the Christian name. How few, even among the members of churches, do really mould their lives from day to day by the teachings of our Lord and his disciples!

This same thought may be presented in another form. Let us remark, then, that while the true teachings of religion are found in the Bible, yet a new edition of them seems wanted, viz., the actual obedience of those that adopt them as their creed and rule of life. To make these doctrines manifest in the lives of any considerable number among men, would give them a power such as they have rarely had.

We have had a great many translations of the Holy Scriptures; the best of all would be their translation into the daily practice of Christian people.

Up on the hills where the young trees grow,Looking down on the fields below—Long-leaved chestnuts and maples low;Up where lingereth late the sun,When the soft spring day is nearly done,Dying away in the west;Up where the poplar's silver stemBends by the marsh's grass-fringed hem,By the soft May wind caressed;Up where the long, slim shadows fallFrom the scarlet oak and the pepperidge tall,Where the birds and the squirrels tirelessly call,Where in autumn the flowers of the gentian blueLook up with their eyes so dark and true,Up into the hazy sky,Dreaming away as the red leaves drop,And the acorn falls from its deep brown cup,And the yellow leaves float by;Up where the violets, white and blue,Bloom in sunshine and the dew,Tenderly living their still life through,Where the deep-cut leaves of the liverwort grow,And the great white flowers of the dogwood blowOver the pale anemones;—Cometh a perfume spicily shedFrom the wild Azalea's full-wreathed headLifted among the trees.There where the sun-flecked shadows lie,Quivering light as the breeze laughs by,And the leaves all dance 'neath the soft spring sky;Blossoming bright when the twigs grow green,And the sunlight falls with a tenderer sheenThan comes with the summer noon,Blossoming bright where the laurel gleams,Lifting its sculptured flowers to the beamsOf the warm, glad sun of June.And so it smiles to itself all day,Where it stands alone by the mountain way,Hearing the merry young leaves at play;And soft on the stones its smile is cast,And it laughs with the wind as it saunters past,The fresh, young wind of May:And happily thus it lives its lifeTill the woods with sounds of summer are rife,When it silently passes away.And once again to the hills we go,When the sun shines warm on the fields belowWhere the midsummer lilies are all aglow,When shadows are thicker, and scarcely the breezeStirs a leaf on the gleaming poplar trees,And low are the streamlet's tones;For the bright Azalea we look in vain,And long for its smile to gladden againOur hearts and the old gray stones.

Up where the long, slim shadows fallFrom the scarlet oak and the pepperidge tall,Where the birds and the squirrels tirelessly call,Where in autumn the flowers of the gentian blueLook up with their eyes so dark and true,Up into the hazy sky,Dreaming away as the red leaves drop,And the acorn falls from its deep brown cup,And the yellow leaves float by;

Up where the violets, white and blue,Bloom in sunshine and the dew,Tenderly living their still life through,Where the deep-cut leaves of the liverwort grow,And the great white flowers of the dogwood blowOver the pale anemones;—Cometh a perfume spicily shedFrom the wild Azalea's full-wreathed headLifted among the trees.

There where the sun-flecked shadows lie,Quivering light as the breeze laughs by,And the leaves all dance 'neath the soft spring sky;Blossoming bright when the twigs grow green,And the sunlight falls with a tenderer sheenThan comes with the summer noon,Blossoming bright where the laurel gleams,Lifting its sculptured flowers to the beamsOf the warm, glad sun of June.

And so it smiles to itself all day,Where it stands alone by the mountain way,Hearing the merry young leaves at play;And soft on the stones its smile is cast,And it laughs with the wind as it saunters past,The fresh, young wind of May:And happily thus it lives its lifeTill the woods with sounds of summer are rife,When it silently passes away.

And once again to the hills we go,When the sun shines warm on the fields belowWhere the midsummer lilies are all aglow,When shadows are thicker, and scarcely the breezeStirs a leaf on the gleaming poplar trees,And low are the streamlet's tones;For the bright Azalea we look in vain,And long for its smile to gladden againOur hearts and the old gray stones.

Kate was sitting by the window. I was sitting beside her. It may be well to state here that Kate was a young lady, and that I am a young gentleman. Kate had large, lustrous dark eyes, which just then were covered with fringed, drooping eyelashes. She had braids of dark hair wreathed around her head, a soft pink color in her cheeks, and a rosebud mouth, womanly, fresh, and lovely. Kate was clad in a pink muslin dress, with a tiny white ruffle around her white throat. She was armed with four steely needles, which were so many bright arrows that pierced my heart through and through. Over her fingers glided a small blue thread, which proceeded from the ball of yarn I held in my hand.

Kate was knitting a stocking, and surely, irrevocably she was taking me captive; already I felt myself entangled by those small threads.

We were the inmates of a boarding house. Kate was a new boarder. I had known her but a few weeks.

The evening was warm, and I took up a palm-leaf fan, and fanned her. She thanked me. I looked at her white hands, gliding in and out under the blue yarn; there were no rings on those fingers. I thought how nicely one would look upon that ring finger—a tiny gold circlet, with two hearts joined upon it, and on the inside two names written—hers and mine. Then I thought of Kate as my wife, always clad in a pink muslin dress, always with her hair in just such glossy braids, and knitting stockings to the end of time.

'Kate shall be my wife,' I said to myself, in rash pride, as I fanned her more energetically. I did not know that the way to a woman's heart was more intricate than a labyrinth; but I had the clue in the blue yarn which I held in my hand. I little knew what I undertook. Kate was shy as a wild deer, timid as a fawn, with an atmosphere of reserve about her which one could not well break through.

'For whom are you knitting those stockings, Miss Kate?' I asked.

'For a soldier, Mr. Armstrong,' she replied, her eye kindling with patriotism.

'If I will be one of the Home Guards, and stay and take care of you, will you knit me a pair?'

'Never. I feel abundantly able to take care of myself. I wish you would enlist, Mr. Armstrong. When you do, I will knit you a pair.'

'It would be almost worth the sacrifice,' I replied.

'Sacrifice! Would you sacrifice yourself for a pair of stockings? Have you not patriotism enough to offer yourself upon the altar of your country? If I were a man, I would enlist in a moment, though I had ten thousand a year, and a wife and seven children.'

I will confess to you, gentle reader, that I was not such a craven as I appeared. The fires of patriotism were smouldering in my bosom, and I needed only a spark from Kate's hand to light them into life and action. Kate rose and left the room, her cheek glowing with spirit, and I sat and fanned the chair where she had sat, for a few moments. It was too bad to break up the delicioustête-à-têteso soon.

I lingered in the parlor after the gas was lighted, but she did not come. I put on my hat, and went out. I would enlist. I had meant to do so all along. I had managed my business in reference to it—the only drawback was the thought of Kate. How pleasant it would be to remind her of her promise, and ask her for the stockings and herself with them! Visions of tender partings and interesting letters floated around me at the thought.

There was a meeting in Tremont Temple in aid of recruiting. Flags hung drooping from the ceiling, bands of music were in attendance in the galleries, and distinguished and eloquent speakers occupied the platform. I do not think their eloquence had much to do with my action, for I had resolved beforehand. I went forward at the close of the meeting, and signed my name to the roll as a Massachusetts volunteer. A pair of hands in the gallery began the thunder of applause that greeted the act. I looked up; Kate was there, clapping enthusiastically. But who was that tall fellow in uniform by her side, with a tremendous mustache, and eyes which flashed brighter than her own? He, then, was the soldier for whom she was knitting the stockings. The rest of the meeting was a blank to me.

I watched, and followed them to the door of the boarding house. I hid myself behind a lamp post, as they paused on the steps. She turned toward him, her face all aglow with feeling.

'Good by, Frank. Take good care of yourself. I'm glad to have you enlist, but so sorry to lose you,' and tears trembled in her eyes.

'Good by, Kate, darling; and after the war is over, I will come home and take care of my bird,' and he turned away.

'Stop Frank!'

'Well, birdie?'

'Those are not fit words to dismiss a soldier with. Here, I'll give you a watchword. Think of it, Frank:

"Never give up! though the grapeshot may rattleOr the thick thunder cloud over you burst,Stand like a rock! in the storm or the battle,Little shall harm you, though doing their worst!"

'Brave words, Kate. You deserve a kiss for them.' It was given. I turned away in desperation, and walked onward, not caring where I went. Policemen watched me, but the lateness of the hour made no difference to me. I could have walked all night. At length I came to a bridge. The moon was shining upon the rippling water. It looked cold and dark, except where the ripples were. There would be a plunge, and then the water would flow on over my head. Why not? I did not know I had loved her with such devotion. It was all over now. She belonged to another. My foot was on the rail. I thought then of the name I had signed to the roll. 'No, Jacob Armstrong, youhave no right to take the life which you have given to your country.' I turned away toward my boarding place, full of bitterness and despair. A tiny glove was on the stairs. I picked it up and pressed it passionately to my lips, and cursed myself for the act as I threw it down again.

The days that followed were weary enough. I made arrangements for my departure with all possible speed. I avoided Kate, and was cold and haughty in my salutations. I am very dignified naturally. I can be an iceberg in human shape when I wish. One evening I went into the parlor before tea, and took up a newspaper. Kate came in. I put on my dignity, and tried to be interested in politics, though I could think of nothing but the dainty figure opposite, and the gleaming needles in her hands. I struggled with the passionate, bitter feelings that rose at the sight of her, and was calm and cold.

'I am glad you have enlisted, Mr. Armstrong, she said.

'Thank you,' I replied stiffly.

'I suppose you are very busy making preparations?'

'Very.'

'And you are going soon?'

'I hope so.'

Kate left the room. I wished she was back again a thousand times. How kind and shy she looked. If there was a gleam of hope—that tall fellow in uniform—no, she might stay away forever. And yet my heart gave a great leap as she appeared again.

'I want to show you a photograph, Mr. Armstrong,' she said, blushing and smiling. I took it. It was the officer in uniform, with the tremendous mustache and flashing eyes.

'It is my brother Frank. Does he look like me?'

I started as if I had been shot.

'Miss Kate, I want to take a walk now, and I should like some company. Will you go with me?'

'Hadn't we better have tea first?' she said, smiling. 'The bell has just rung.'

I do not know how that tea passed off, whether we had jumbles or muffins, whether I drank tea or cold water; but I knew that opposite me sat Kate, radiant in pink muslin, and when the interminable tea was over, we were going to take a walk together. I was thinking what I should say. I am generally a sociable and genial man, and it seems to me that on this particular evening I was assaulted with a storm of questions and remarks.

'Don't you think so, Mr. Armstrong?' asked the lady on my right, the lady on my left, and the gentleman in black at the end of the table. I aimed monosyllables at them promiscuously, and have at present no means of knowing whether they fitted the questions and remarks or not.

In the midst of a mental speech, I was vigorously assaulted by Mary, the table girl, and, looking about me in surprise, I caught a glimpse of the boardinghouse cat just disappearing through the door:

'And sure, Mr. Armstrong, yer must be blind. The blow was intended for the cat, and she had her paw in yer plate.'

Perhaps you do not know how pleasant it is to take a walk with a little gloved hand resting upon your arm, little feet keeping step with yours, and a soft voice chiming in with everything you say. I was happy on that particular night. We walked on the Common. The stars shone, and the long branches of the old elms swayed to and fro in the moonlight, as we passed under them. It was just the time and place that I liked.

'Miss Kate,' I began, 'in a few days I shall be far away from home and friends, amid danger and death, fighting the battles of my country. I have known you but a short time; but that time has been long enough to show me that I love you with my whole soul. I offer my hand and heart to you. May I not hope that you will sometimesthink of the soldier—that I may carry your heart with me?'

'I think you may hope,' she replied, gently; 'but this is very sudden. I will give you a final answer to-morrow morning.'

When we got home, we went into the dining room, and I helped her to a glass of ice water, and hoped she would linger there a moment; but she was shy, and bade me a kind good night. I didn't know till the next morning what she was about the rest of the evening; when she met me on the stairs, placed a small parcel in my hands, saying:

'My answer, Mr. Armstrong,' and was off like a fawn.

I opened it, and saw the stockings, blue, and warm and soft. A note was stitched in the toe of one of them:

My dear Friend: I said I was knitting the stockings for a soldier. I began them, with a patriotic impulse, for no one in particular. I finished them last night, and knit loving thoughts of you in with every stitch, I have always liked you, but I do not think I should have given you my hand if you had not enlisted. I love you, but I love my country more. I give you the stockings. When you wear them, I hope you will sometimes think of her who fashioned them, and who gives herself to you with them. Yours,Kate.

I reverently folded the tiny note, after having committed it to memory, and repeated its contents to myself all the way to my office, beginning with 'Mr. Armstrong,' and ending with 'Yours, Kate.' I was in a state of extreme beatification. Kate was mine, noble girl! She loved me, and yet was willing to give me up for her country's cause. And I began to repeat the note to myself again, when, on a crossing, I was accosted by a biped, commonly known as a small boy:

'Mister, yer stocking is sticking out of yer pocket.'

I turned calmly around, and addressed him:

'Boy, I glory in those stockings. I am willing that the universe should behold them. My destiny is interwoven with them. Every stitch is instinct with life and love.'

'Don't see it, mister! Glory, hallelujah!' and he ended his speech by making an exclamation point of himself, by standing on his head—a very bad practice for small boys. I advise all precocious youngsters, who may read this article, to avoid such positions.

We broke camp, and started off in high spirits. I paraded through the streets with a bouquet of rosebuds on my bayonet. I found a note among them afterward, more fragrant than they.

When our regiment left Boston, it went from Battery Wharf. I went on board the Merrimac. Kate could not pass the lines, and stationed herself in a vessel opposite, where we could look at each other. I aimed a rosebud at her; it fell into the green water, and floated away. The second and third were more successful. She pressed one to her lips and threw it back again; the other she kept. Afterward, with the practical forethought which forms a part of her character, she bought out an apple woman, and stormed me with apples. The vessel left the wharf, and I looked back with eyes fast growing dim, and watched the figure on the dock, bravely waving her white handkerchief as long as I could see.

Well, it is hard for a man to leave home and friends, and all that he holds dear; but I do not regret it, though I have to rough it now. I am writing now beside a bivouac made of poles and cornstalks. My desk is a rude bench. I have just finished my dinner of salt junk and potatoes. On my feet is that pair of stockings. Profanity and almost every vice abounds; there are temptations all around me, but pure lips have promised to pray for me, and I feel that I shall be shielded and guarded, and kept uncontaminated, true to my 'north star,' which shines so brightly to me—true to my country and my God.

Sordello, Strafford, Christmas Eve, and Easter Day. ByRobert Browning. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

The contents of this volume, though now first presented to the American public, are not the latest of the author's writings. It completes, however, Messrs. Ticknor & Fields' reprint of his poetical works. His growing popularity calls for the present publication. We would fain number ourselves among the admirers of the husband of Elizabeth Barrett; the man loved by this truly great poetess, to whom she addressed the refined and imaginative tenderness of the 'Portuguese Sonnets?' of whom she writes:

'Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate,' which, if cut deep down the middle, shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.'

Before the man so loved and honored, we repeat, we would fain bow in reverence. But it may not be; we cannot receive him as atruepoet—as in any poetic quality the peer of his matchless wife. We hear much of his subtile psychology—we deem it psychological unintelligibility. His rhythm is rough and unmusical, his style harsh and inverted, his imagery cold, his invective bitter, and his verbiage immense. His illustrations are sometimes coarse, his comparisons diminish rather than increase the importance of the ideas to which they are applied. His pages are frequently as chaotic as those of Wagner's music; leaf after leaf may be turned over in the despairing search for a single crystallized idea. Fiery sparks, flying meteors, inchoate masses of nebulous matter are around us, but no glass in our possession can resolve them into ordered orbs of thought and beauty. If a man have anything to say, why not say it in clear, terse, vigorous English, or why use worlds of vigorous words to say nothing. Some years ago, one of Browning's books was sent for review to Douglas Jerrold, who was then just recovering from an attack of brain fever: after reading it for some time, and finding that he failed to arrive at any clear idea of the meaning of its lines, he began to fear that his brain was again becoming confused, and, handing it to his wife with a request that she would look over it in his absence, went out to drive. Returning in the evening, his first question was: 'Well, my dear, what do you think of Browning's poem?' 'Bother the gibberish,' was her indignant reply, 'I can't understand a word of it.' 'Thank God,' exclaimed Jerrold, clapping his hands to his head triumphantly, 'then I am not actually insane.'

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