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At home with her own thoughts, but took her And when the winter day closed in so fast ;

way

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To her next neighbor's, half a loaf to borrow, Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,

And with the loan obtained, she lingered still.

Said she, "My master, if he'd had his will,
Would have kept back our little ones from school
This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,
Since they 've been gone, I've wished them back.
But then

--

It won't do in such things to humor men,
Our Ambrose specially. If let alone
He'd spoil those wenches. But it's coming on,
That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,
Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff
Will come into one's head! And here with you
I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do

Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;
And in all weathers - driving sleet and snow
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,
Darkling and lonely. O, the blessed sight

polestar) of that little twinkling light

From one small window, through the leafless trees,
Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he,
Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,
Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,
Streaming to meet him from the open door.
Then, though the blackbird's welcome was un-
heard,

Silenced by winter, note of summer bird
Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive,
But from the cuckoo clock just striking five.
And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen,

And they'll come home, drowned rats. I must Off started he, and then a form was seen

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His day's work done, three mortal miles, and more,
Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door.
A weary way, God wot, for weary wight!
But yet far off the curling smoke in sight
From his own chimney, and his heart felt light.
How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,
Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood!
How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze,
In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,
Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,
From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry,
How grateful the cool covert to regain
Of his own avenue, that shady lane,
With the white cottage, in a slanting glow
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below,
And jasmine porch, his rustic portico!

With what a thankful gladness in his face,
(Silent heart-homage, - plant of special grace !)
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,
Would Ambrose send a loving look before;
Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door,
The very black bird, strained its little throat,
In welcome, with a more rejoicing note;
And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,
All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need,"
Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;
But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,
The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,
Of his two little ones. How fondly swells
The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,
Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,
And each must tell her tale and " say her say,'
Impeding as she leads with sweet delay
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward

way.

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Such was the hour-hour sacred and apart -
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied,
Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet
So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet,
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way;
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray
That time I tell of. He had worked all day
At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed
broke,

And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of
that?

There was a treasure hidden in his hat,

A plaything for the young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,

When he should yield, by guess and kiss and Unheeded, he had followed in the dark,

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Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light,
Darted before them now. "Be sure he's right,
He's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the
light
Low down, he 's making for the water. Hark!
I know that whine, the old dog's found them,
Mark."

So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on
Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone!
And all his dull contracted light could show
Was the black void and dark swollen stream below.
"Yet there 's life somewhere, more than Tink-

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That 's sure," said Mark. So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog, — and, hark!" "O dear!"

And a low sob came faintly on the ear,

Well if my mistress had been ruled by me
But, checking the half-thought as heresy,
He looked out for the Home Star. There it Mocked by the sobbing gust.
shone,

And with a gladdened heart he hastened on.

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The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.
But what's the meaning? no lookout to-night!
No living soul astir! Pray God, all 's right!
Who's flittering round the peat-stack in such
weather?

thought,

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Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught Fast hold of something, -a dark huddled heap,

Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deep
For a tall man, and half above it, propped
By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt
Endways the broken plank, when it gave way
With the two little ones that luckless day!
"My babes! - my lambkins!" was the father's

ery.

One little voice made answer, "Here am I!"
'T was Lizzy's. There she crouched with face
as white,

Mother!" you might have felled him with a More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light

feather,

When the short answer to his loud "Hillo!"

And hurried question, "Are they come?" was

"No."

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook
The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word,
That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone
To where a fearful foresight led him on.
Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,
Mark Fenton's, -him he took with short delay
To bear him company, for who could say
What need might be? They struck into the track
The children should have taken coming back
From school that day; and many a call and shout
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out,
And, by the lantern light, peered all about,
In every roadside thicket, hole, and nook,
Till suddenly as nearing now the brook
Something brushed past them. That was Tink-
er's bark,

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+

At home with her own thoughts, but took her! And when the winter day closed in so fast; way

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And with the loan obtained, she lingered still.
Said she, 'My master, if he 'd had his will,
Would have kept back our little ones from school
This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,
Since they 've been gone, I've wished them back.
But then

It won't do in such things to humor men,
Our Ambrose specially. If let alone
He'd spoil those wenches. But it's coming on,
That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,
Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff
Will come into one's head! And here with you
I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do -

Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;
And in all weathers - driving sleet and snow
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,
Darkling and lonely. O, the blessed sight
(His polestar) of that little twinkling light
From one small window, through the leafless trees,
Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he,
Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,
Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,
Streaming to meet him from the open door.
Then, though the blackbird's welcome was un-
heard,

Silenced by winter, note of summer bird
Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive,
But from the cuckoo clock just striking five.
And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen, -

And they'll come home, drowned rats. I must Off started he, and then a form was seen

be gone

To get dry things, and set the kettle on."

His day's work done, three mortal miles, and more,
Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door.
A weary way, God wot, for weary wight!
But yet far off the curling smoke in sight
From his own chimney, and his heart felt light.
How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,
Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood!
How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze,
In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,
Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,
From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry,
How grateful the cool covert to regain
Of his own avenue, - that shady lane,
With the white cottage, in a slanting glow
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below,
And jasmine porch, his rustic portico!

With what a thankful gladness in his face,
(Silent heart-homage, plant of special grace!)
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,
Would Ambrose send a loving look before;
Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door,
The very black bird, strained its little throat,
In welcome, with a more rejoicing note;
And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,
All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need,"
Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;
But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,
The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,
Of his two little ones. How fondly swells
The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,
Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,
And each must tell her tale and " say her say,"
Impeding as she leads with sweet delay
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward.

way.

Darkening the doorway; and a smaller sprite,
And then another, peered into the night,
Ready to follow free on Tinker's track,
But for the mother's hand that held her back ;
And yet a moment a few steps - and there,
Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair,
He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair;
Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say,

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Such was the hour-hour sacred and apart -
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied,
Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet
So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet,
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way :
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray
That time I tell of. He had worked all day
At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed

broke,

And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that?

There was a treasure hidden in his hat, -
A plaything for the young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,

When he should yield, by guess and kiss and Unheeded, he had followed in the dark,

prayer

Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.

'T was a wild evening, wild and rough. "I knew,"

Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light, Darted before them now. "Be sure he's right, He's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the light

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Low down, he 's making for the water. Hark! the old dog's found them,

Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke I know that whine,

true,

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And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,
I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thought
My little maids were not safe housed before
That blinding hail-storm, ay, this hour and

more,

Unless by that old crazy bit of board,

Mark."

So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. 66 Yet there 's life somewhere, - more than Tinker's whine,

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They 've not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford, That 's sure," said Mark. So, let the lantern That I'll be bound for, swollen as it must

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Well if my mistress had been ruled by me But, checking the half-thought as heresy,

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And a low sob came faintly on the ear,

He looked out for the Home Star. There it Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as

[blocks in formation]

One little voice made answer, "Here am I!"
'T was Lizzy's. There she crouched with face
as white,

Mother!" you might have felled him with & More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors]

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook
The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word,
That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone
To where a fearful foresight led him on.
Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,
Mark Fenton's, him he took with short delay
To bear him company, for who could say
What need might be? They struck into the track
The children should have taken coming back
From school that day; and many a call and shout
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out,
And, by the lantern light, peered all about,
In every roadside thicket, hole, and nook,
Till suddenly- - as nearing now the brook
Something brushed past them. That was Tink-
er's bark,

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[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

66

The wretched mother's heart, when she knew all,
'But for my foolishness about that shawl !
And master would have kept them back the day;
But I was willful, driving them away
In such wild weather!"

Thus the tortured heart
Unnaturally against itself takes part,
Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe
Too deep already. They had raised her now,
And parting the wet ringlets from her brow,
To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,
The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled
Once more the fatal shawl -- her winding-sheet--
About the precious clay. One heart still beat,
Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child.
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild
Pierced him afresh, and now she knew him not.
"Mother!" she murmured, "who says I for-
got?

"Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, And tied the shawl quite close - she can't be cold

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She is dead, quite dead, you see.
Poor little lady! she lies
With the light gone out of her eyes,
But her features still wear that soft
Gray meditative expression,
Which you must have noticed oft,

And admired too, at confession.
How saintly she looks, and how meek!
Though this be the chamber of death,
I fancy I feel her breath

As I kiss her on the cheek.
With that pensive religious face,
She has gone to a holier place!
And I hardly appreciated her,

Her praying, fasting, confessing,
Poorly, I own, I mated her;

I thought her too cold, and rated her
For her endless image-caressing.
Too saintly for me by far,

As pure and as cold as a star,

Not fashioned for kissing and pressing, But made for a heavenly crown. Ay, father, let us go down, But first, if you please, your blessing!

11.

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