"How holy the calm, in the stillness of neune,
When the pot is a singin its silvery teune,--
Its soft, woolly teune, jest like Aribi's Darter,
While the tea-kettle plays up the simperny arter.
"How holy the calm, in the stillness of night,
When the moon, like a punkin, looks yaller and bright;
While the aowls an' the katydids, screeching like time,
Jest brings me up close to the eend o' my rhyme."
And underneath was added, as if in scorn of my fruitless endeavor:--
"I wrote that are right off, as fast as you could shell corn. S.P."
I suppose it is by way of thanks for my having driven the pigs from
the garden, that I find a great bunch of dahlias adorning my
mantelpiece. A brown earthen pitcher! And in the middle of the
dahlias, a magnificent sunflower! It must be my aunt's doing, and its
very homeliness pleases me, just as I love her homely sincerity of
affection. Who arranges the glasses in the parlor? Etty, I would not
fear to affirm, from the asters and golden-rod, cheek by jole with
petunias and carnations. I wonder if she would not like some of the
clematis I saw twining about a dead tree by the pond. It is more
beautiful in its present state than when it was in flower. Etty loves
wild flowers because she is one herself, and loves to hide here in her
native nook, where no eye (I might except my own) gives her more than
a casual glance.
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