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"Because, in all weather, I'm merry and free,

They call me the Winter King. Pee, dee, dee."

But soon there'll be ice weighing down the light bough,
On which thou art flitting so playfully now;

And though there's a vesture well fitted and warm,
Protecting the rest of thy delicate form,

What then wilt thou do with thy little, bare feet,
To save them from pain 'mid the frost and the sleet?
"I can draw them right up in my feathers, you see,
To warm them and fly away. Pee, dee, dee."




VIOLET, Violet, sparkling with dew,

Down in the meadow-land wild, where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue

With which your soft petals unfold?

And how do you hold up your tender, young head,
When rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
And dark, gloomy clouds ranging over you, shed
Their waters so heavy and cold?

No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
As here I have found at my feet!

Speak, my sweet violet, answer, and tell,
How you have grown up, and flourished so well,
And look so contented where lonely you dwell,
And we thus by accident meet?

"The same careful hand," the violet said,
"That holds up the firmament, holds up my head;
And He, who with azure the skies overspread,
Has painted the violet blue.

He sprinkles the stars out above me by night,

And sends down the sunbeams, at morning, with light
To make my new coronet sparkling and bright,
When formed of a drop of his dew.

"I've naught to fear from the black, heavy cloud,
Or the breath of the tempest that comes strong and loud,

When, born in the lowland, and far from the crowd,

I know, and I live but for ONE.

He soon forms a mantle, about me to cast,

Of long, silken grass, till the rain and the blast,

And all that seemed threatening, have harmlessly passed,
As the clouds scud before the warm sun!"




I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude, with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters, which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that, at times, it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blast of adversity.

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly, because he is more

stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect is kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned; and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant.

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune; but that of my friend was ample, and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies, that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. "Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale."

The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious combination: he was of a romantic, and somewhat serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture, with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond, confiding air, with which she looked up to him, seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward, on the flowery path of early and well suited marriage, with a fairer prospect of felicity.

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. For a time, he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable was, the necessity of keeping up a smile

in the presence of his wife; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news.

She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek; the song will die away from those lips; the luster of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world.

At length he came to me, one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?" At the question, he burst into an agony of tears. "If you have any pity on me," cried he, "don't mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness!"


"And why not?" said I. "She must know it sooner or later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together-an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive, that something is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love will not brook reserve; it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it."

“Oh! but, my friend, to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects! how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar! that she is to forego all the elegances of life, all the pleasures of society, to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! to tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere, in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness, the light

of every eye, the admiration of every heart! How can she bear poverty? She has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect? She has been the idol of society. Oh! it will break her heart! it will break her heart!” I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation, at once, to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively.

"But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living-nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, “don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show; you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged: and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary-" "I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a hovel! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust!-I could—I could—God bless her!-God bless her!" cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness.

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasping him warmly by the hand, "believe me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more: it will be a source of pride and triumph to her; it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is, in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams, and blazes, in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is, no man knows what a ministering angel she is, until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world."

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with; and, following up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go home, and unburden his sad heart to his wife.


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