EXERCISE CXXXI. A MELTING STORY. — George Kendall. One winter evening, a country store-keeper, in the Mountain State, was about closing his doors for the night; and, while standing in the snow outside, putting up his windowshutters, he saw, through the glass, a lounging, worthless fellow, within, grab a pound of fresh butter from the shelf, and hastily conceal it in his hat. The act was no sooner detected than the revenge was hit upon; and a very few moments found the Green Mountain store-keeper at once indulging his appetite for fun, to the fullest extent, and paying off the thief, with a facetious sort of torture, for which he might have gained a premium from the old Inquisition. 'I say, Seth!' said the store-keeper, coming in, and closing the door after him, slapping his hands over his shoulders, and stamping the snow off his shoes. Seth had his hand upon the door, his hat upon his head, and the roll of new butter in his hat, anxious to make his exit as soon as possible. 'I say, Seth, sit down: I reckon, now, on such a tarnal night as this, a leetle something warm would n't hurt a fellow. Come, and sit down.' Seth felt very uncertain: he had the butter, and was exceedingly anxious to be off; but the temptation of 'something warm' sadly interfered with his resolution to go. This hesitation, however, was soon settled by the right owner of the butter taking Seth by the shoulder, and planting him in a seat close to the stove, where he was in such a manner cornered in by barrels and boxes, that while the country grocer sat before him, there was no possibility of his getting out; and right in this very place, sure enough, the store-keeper sai down. 'Seth, we 'll have a little warm Santa Cruz,' said the Green Mountain grocer, as he opened the stove-door, and stuffed in as many sticks as the space would admit. Without it, you'd freeze going home such a night as this.' Seth already felt the butter settling down closer to his hair, and jumped up, declaring he must go. 'Not till you have something warm, Seth. Come, I've got a story to tell you, too: sit down, now;' and Seth was again pushed into his seat by his cunning tormentor. "Oh! it's confounded hot here,' said the petty thief, again attempting to rise. 'Set down; don't be in such a plaguy hurry,' retorted the grocer, pushing him back in his chair. 'But I've got the cows to fodder, and some wood to split, and I must be a-goin', continued the persecuted chap. ner. 'But you must n't tear yourself away, Seth, in this manSet down; let the cows take care of themselves, and keep yourself cool: you appear to be fidgetty,' said the roguish grocer, with a wicked leer. The next thing was the production of two smoking glasses of hot rum-toddy, the very sight of which, in Seth's present situation, would have made the hair stand erect upon his head, had it not been well oiled and kept down by the butter. 'Seth, I'll give you a toast now, and you can butter it yourself,' said the grocer, with an air of such consummate simplicity, that poor Seth still believed himself unsuspected. 'Seth, here's here's a Christmas goose, (it was about Christmas time,) · here's a Christmas goose, well roasted and basted, eh? I tell you, Seth, it's the greatest eating in creation. And, Seth, do n't you never use hog's fat, or common cooking butter, to baste with. Fresh pound butter, just the same as you see on that shelf yonder, is the only proper thing in natur', to baste a goose with. Come, take your butter-I mean, Seth, take your toddy.' Poor Seth now began to smoke as well as to melt; and his mouth was as hermetically sealed up, as though he had been born dumb. Streak after streak of the butter came pouring from under his hat; and his handkerchief was already soaked with the greasy overflow. Talking away, as if nothing was the matter, the grocer kept stuffing the wood into the stove, while poor Seth sat bolt upright, with his back against the counter, and his knees almost touching the red-hot furnace before him. 6 'Confounded cold night this!' said the grocer. Why, Seth, you seem to perspire, as if you was warm! Why don't you take your hat off? Here, let me put your hat away?' 'No!' exclaimed poor Seth at last, with a spasmodic effort to get his tongue loose, and clapping both hands upon his hat; 'no! I must go: let me out; I aint well, let me go!' A greasy cataract was now pouring down the poor fellow's face and neck, and soaking into his clothes, and trickling down his body into his very boots, so that he was literally in a perfect bath of oil. 'Well, good night, Seth,' said the humorous Vermonter, 'if you will go;' adding, as Seth got into the road, 'neighbor, I reckon the fun I've had out of you is worth a ninepence, so I shan't charge for that pound of butter!' EXERCISE CXXXII. OUR MOUNTAIN HOMES. Mrs. S. R. A. Barnes. Written for the 4th of July. The glad, green earth beneath our feet Yet wherefore wakes a scene like this Why do we love our mountain land? - More beautiful her daughters. . Go, fling a fetter o'er the mind, Why turn we to our mountain homes, This is her home, - this is her home, And millions rise to bless her! And bless our God who fixed the home EXERCISE CXXXIII. A TRUE LIFE. H. Greeley. A true life must be simple in all its elements. Animated by one grand and ennobling impulse, all inferier aspirations. find their proper places in harmonious subserivence. Simplicity in taste, in appetite, in habits of life, with a corresponding indifference to worldly honors and aggrandizement, is the natural result of the predominance of a divine and un selfish idea. Under the guidance of such a sentiment, virtue is not an effort, but a law of nature, like gravitation. It is vice alone that seems unaccountable, monstrous, — wellnigh miraculous. Purity is felt to be as necessary to the mind, as health to the body, and its absence, alike, the inevitable source of pain. A true life must be calm. A life imperfectly directed, is made wretched through distraction. We give up our youth to excitement, and wonder that a decrepit old age steals upon us so soon. We wear out our energies in strife for gold or fame, and then wonder, alike, at the cost, and the worthlessness of the meed. 'Is not the life more than meat?' Ay, truly! but how few have practically, consistently, so regarded it? And little as it is regarded by the imperfectly virtuous, how much less by the vicious and the worldling! What a chaos of struggling emotions, is exhibited by the lives of the multitude! How like to the wars of the infuriated animalculæ, in a magnified drop of water, is the strife constantly waged in each little mind! How Sloth is jostled by Gluttony, and Pride wrestled with by Avarice, and Ostentation bearded by Meanness! The soul which is not large enough for the indwelling of one virtue, affords lodgment, and scope, and arena, for a hundred vices. But their warfare cannot be indulged with impunity. Agitation and wretchedness are the inevitable consequences, in the midst of which, the flame of life burns flaringly and swiftly to its close. A true life must be genial and joyous. Tell me not, pale anchorite, of your ceaseless vigils, your fastings, your scourgings. These are fit offerings to Moloch, not to our Father. The man who is not happy in the path he has chosen, may be very sure he has chosen amiss, or is self-deceived. But not merely happier, he should be kinder, gentler, and more elastic in spirits, as well as firmer and truer. 'I love God and little children,' says a German poet. The good are ever attracted and made happier, by the presence of the innocent and lovely. And he who finds his religion adverse to, or a restraint upon, the truly innocent pleasures and gayeties of life, so that the latter do not interfere with and jar upon its sublimer objects, may well doubt whether he has indeed 'learned of Jesus.' |