Part 15

If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

XC.--THE FRUIT.

GUSTAVUS FRANKENSTEIN.

It is not alone the delicious grape, the grateful apple, the luscious pear, the clustered cherries, the tart currants, the golden orange, the sweet blackberries, the refreshing melon, the blooming peach, the purple plum, the sun-fed strawberries, or whatever other products of the plants we may deem good to eat, that are entitled to the name of fruit. The very mention, the very thought of fruit, brings to our minds an ever-welcome idea of something not only wholesome and pleasing to the taste, but at the same time beautiful; for all fertile flowers, on whatever plant they may grow, merge eventually into fruit. That fruit may not be edible; it may be bitter, it may be sour, it may be as dry as a chip, or it may even be poisonous,--still it is fruit. It is fruit to the plant, if not to us.

The seed, we may say, is the infant offspring of the plant, by means of which, in the course of nature, it perpetuates its kind. The flower is the first step in the formation of the fruit. The plant opens to the sunshine a charming expression of form and color in the budding flower. Nursing in its bosom the growing germ, the flower usually sheds its gay attire, throws off its petals, its ribbons, and its tassels, and in a sober, motherly way devotes itself to the one great task of cherishing, perfecting, and guarding the seed.

In fact, the flower, which at first seemed but a transport of joy, now shorn of its bridal ornaments, has become the substantial fruit. That fruit is the guardian of the seed, within which sleeps the infant plant; and according to the needs of that seed will the fruit be fashioned. Are the seeds to be carried far and wide?--ten to one the fruit is furnished with a plume, a sail, or a wing, by which to be wafted through the air, or with hooks to cling to passing animals, or with some other contrivance to effect conveyance.

Or, if the seed inside be provided with a sail, the fruit will open and let the little seed go forth and seek its fortune by itself. Endless are the expedients by which the seed and the fruit seek to perpetuate the kind of plant from which they spring.

We may look at the well-known fruit-head of the dandelion, which is the prettiest little airy-like silken ball that can be imagined. Doubtless, it has not occurred to everybody, what this beautiful sphere, so common in the meadows and by the road-sides, really is. Previous to this sphere, and in the place of it, was the flower, the well-known yellow dandelion, which belongs to the composite family.

The dandelion is not really _one_ flower, but a circled group of many small flowers or florets. These are surrounded by an outer circle of green leaflets, which bend down when the florets have changed into fruits, allowing them to radiate in every direction from the core in the centre. The whole ball is made up of many small fruits, each of which is a single seed enclosed in a thin cover, surmounted by an elevated circled plume.

Blow on this lovely little sphere, and away will fly the little tufted fruits, some one way and some another. If there is any breeze stirring, there is no knowing how far they will go. It is not strange, then, that dandelions spring up almost everywhere. See what a vast number of fruits must go sailing about, all over the country, on a dry midsummer’s day. It is true, not half of them grow up into plants to make more dandelions, but a great many of them do.

In the same way, the beautiful asters of our woods, with their flowers of yellow or purplish disks, and lovely rays of white or purple, as large as roses, let their little fruits fly away from their heads as soon as ripe and dry.

There are about as many different kinds of fruits as there are of flowers. The plants of the bean family, for instance, have fruits like the bean pods. These pods, when ripe and dry, split open at the two edges, and then the beans or seeds drop out. Do you know the pods of the honey-locust trees,--large, broad, thin, and sweet? Clover too belongs to the bean family. You can find the tiny pods in the dry heads of clover, if you will pick out the little withered flowers and open them.

Some fruits have a kind of wings. Such are the fruits of our beautiful maple tree; and very pretty are these maple keys, as they are called, when they hang in clusters from the branches, and dangle among the leaves. At the end, where they are joined, there is in each key a thick, hard, round swelling, in which is the seed. When the fruit is ripe and dry it falls off, and we may often see the pair of keys flying away together. As they are light, they go whirling in the wind, sometimes to a great distance. The fruit of the ash-tree looks like that of the maple, and also hangs in bunches; but each fruit is a single key.

These are but a few of the many kinds of fruits to be found on plants, each in itself a curiosity and a beauty; and how much we fairly owe to them is scarcely ever in our thoughts. If we consider but wheat alone, how valuable to us is its little fruit, the simple grain; to say nothing of the fruits of other grasses, such as rice, rye, oats, and the large and generous ears of Indian-corn.

Nor must the cotton-plant be forgotten, whose fruit does not indeed feed, but clothes our bodies, enters into countless uses in every household, is indispensable on every craft that sails the sea, and inseparable from so many industries on land and water. The fruit of the cotton-plant is a pod, which, bursting open, reveals a mass of white woolly fibres, enveloping and clinging to the seeds. This is the beautiful and useful cotton.

_Phrase Exercise._

1. Merge eventually.--2. Perpetuates its kind.--3. Charming expression.--4. Usually sheds its gay attire.--5. Shorn of its bridal ornaments.--6. Contrivance to effect conveyance.--7. Surrounded by an elevated circled plume.--8. _Indispensable_ on every _craft_.--9. _Inseparable_ from so many _industries_.

XCI.--THE MAY QUEEN.--CONCLUSION.

TENNYSON.

_THIRD READING._

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done! But still I think it can’t be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! A thousand times I blessed him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin. Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in: Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed, And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, “It’s not for them: it’s mine.” And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seemed to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There’s many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine-- Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun-- For ever and for ever with those just souls and true-- And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and forever, all in a blessed home-- And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come-- To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast-- And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

XCII.--THE GOLDEN TOUCH.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

_THIRD READING._

And, truly, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case, in all your lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for nothing. The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and cup of water, was far better off than King Midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight in gold.

And what was to be done? Already, at breakfast, Midas was excessively hungry. Would he be less so by dinner-time? And how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him! How many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich fare?

These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal’s victuals! It would have been the same as paying millions and millions of money for some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!

“It would be much too dear,” thought Midas.

Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. Our pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat a moment gazing at her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find out what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees. He bent down and kissed her. He felt that his little daughter’s love was worth a thousand times more than he had gained by the Golden Touch.

“My precious, precious Marygold!” cried he.

But Marygold made no answer.

Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger had bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold’s forehead, a change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint. Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father’s encircling arms. O terrible misfortune! The victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue!

Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity, hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woful sight that ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there; even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But, the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father’s agony at beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a daughter.

It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold. And now the phrase had become literally true. And, now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky!

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the fulness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. But, stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender, that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again. This, however, could not be. So Midas had only to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child’s face.

While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger, standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him the day before in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous power of the Golden Touch. The stranger’s countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little Marygold’s image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of Midas.

“Well, friend Midas,” said the stranger, “pray, how do you succeed with the Golden Touch?”

Midas shook his head.

“I am very miserable,” said he.

“Very miserable! indeed!” exclaimed the stranger, “and how happens that? Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not every thing that your heart desired?”

“Gold is not every thing,” answered Midas. “And I have lost all that my heart really cared for.”

“Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?” observed the stranger. “Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is really worth the most,--the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear cold water?”

“O blessed water!” exclaimed Midas. “It will never moisten my parched throat again!”

“The Golden Touch,” continued the stranger, “or a crust of bread?”

“A piece of bread,” answered Midas, “is worth all the gold on earth!”

“The Golden Touch,” asked the stranger, “or your own little Marygold, warm, soft, and loving, as she was an hour ago?”

“O my child, my dear child!” cried poor King Midas, wringing his hands. “I would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!”

“You are wiser than you were, King Midas!” said the stranger, looking seriously at him. “Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that the commonest things, such as lie within everybody’s grasp, are more valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after. Tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden Touch?”

“It is hateful to me!” replied Midas.

A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it, too, had become gold. Midas shuddered.

“Go, then,” said the stranger, “and plunge into the river that glides past the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has occasioned.”

King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger had vanished.

You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched it), and in hastening to the river-side. As he ran along, and forced his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvellous to see how the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there, and nowhere else. On reaching the river’s brink, he plunged headlong in, without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes.

“Poof! poof! poof!” gasped King Midas, as his head emerged out of the water. “Well; this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it must have quite washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my pitcher!”

As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to see it change from gold into the same good, honest, earthen vessel which it had been before he touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his bosom. No doubt his heart had been gradually losing its human substance, and been changing into insensible metal, but had now been softened back again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank of the river, Midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had, therefore, really been removed from him.

King Midas hastened back to the palace; and, I suppose, the servants knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water, which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to Midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure of little Marygold.

No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the rosy color came back to the dear child’s cheek!--and how astonished she was to find herself dripping wet, and her father still throwing more water over her!

“Pray do not, dear father!” cried she. “See how you have wet my nice frock, which I put on only this morning!”

For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor could she remember any thing that had happened since the moment when she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.

Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser he had now grown. For this purpose, he led little Marygold into the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful bloom. There were two circumstances, however, which, as long as he lived, used to remind King Midas of the Golden Touch. One was, that the sands of the river in which he had bathed, sparkled like gold; the other, that little Marygold’s hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never observed in it before she had been changed by the effect of his kiss. This change of hue was really an improvement, and made Marygold’s hair richer than in her babyhood.

When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and used to take Marygold’s children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvellous story, pretty much as I have told it to you. And then would he stroke their glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a rich shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.

“And, to tell you the truth, my precious little folks,” said King Midas, “ever since that morning, I have hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!”

* * * * *

_Life! we’ve been long together_ _Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;_ _’Tis hard to part when friends are dear,--_ _Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;_ _Then steal away, give little warning,_ _Choose thine own time;_ _Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime_ _Bid me Good Morning._

--_Anna Letitia Barbauld._

XCIII.--JOHN GILPIN.

_Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again._

WILLIAM COWPER.

John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town.

John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear, “Though wedded we have been These thrice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

“To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair.

“My sister and my sister’s child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we.”

He soon replied, “I do admire Of womankind but one; And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.

“I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go.”

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said; And for that wine is dear. We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear.”

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O’erjoyed was he to find, That though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in,-- Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad! The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse’s side, Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again:--

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.