Part 10

And so I laughed,--my laughter woke The household with its noise,-- And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.

A RUSSIAN LADY

OF THE OLD SCHOOL.

From Life in the Interior of Russia.

Give me your hand, dear reader, and accompany me on a visit to one of my neighbors. The day is fine, the blue sky of the month of May is a beautiful object; the smooth young leaves of the white hazel-trees are as brilliant as if they had been newly washed. The large, smooth fields are covered with that fine young grass which the sheep love so much to crop; on the right and left, on the long slopes of the hills, the rye-grass is waving, and over its smooth swell glide the shadows of the little flying clouds. In the distance, the woods are resplendent with the brilliant light; the ponds glitter, and the villages are bathed in yellow rays. Innumerable larks fly about, singing and beating their wings in unison; making their appearance first in one spot, then in another, they rise lightly from the fields, and again are as quickly lost in them. The rooks station themselves on the highway, looking up fixedly at the sun; they move aside to let you pass, or foolishly fly forward ten paces on the edge of the road. On the slopes beyond a ravine a laborer is at his plough, and a piebald foal, with its miserable little tail, dishevelled mane, and long, frail legs, runs after its mother, and we may just hear its plaintive neigh. We enter a birch wood, and a fresh and strong odor fills the air; we reach the gate of an enclosure; the coachman descends, and, while the horses snort, and the right wheeler plays with his tail, and rubs his jaw against the pole, he opens the creaking gate, and, reseating himself, we roll on.

A village now presents itself, and, after passing five or six farm-yards, we turn to the right, and descending rapidly, are soon driving along an embankment. Beyond a pond of moderate extent, and behind apple-trees and clustering lilacs, an old wooden house is now visible, painted red, and possessing two chimneys. We drive along a paling on the left, and pass through a large open carriage entrance, saluted by the husky barkings of three old worn-out dogs. My groom gallantly salutes an old housekeeper, who is peeping out of the pantry through a foot and a half window. We draw up before the door near the veranda of a gloomy little house. It is the abode of Tatiana Borissovna. But there she is herself, saluting us from the window. “Good morning, good morning, Madame.”

Tatiana Borissovna is a woman of about fifty; she has large bluish-gray eyes, slightly prominent, a nose inclined to flatness, cherry cheeks, and a double chin. Her face beams with sweetness and goodness. She once had a husband, but so long ago that no one has any recollection of it. She scarcely ever leaves her little property, keeps up but a slight connection with her neighbors, seldom invites them to her house, and likes none but young people. Her father was a poor gentleman, and she consequently received a very imperfect education; in other words, she does not speak French, and has never seen even Moscow, not to speak of St. Petersburg. But, spite of these little defects, she manages all her affairs in her country life so simply and wisely; she has so large a way of thinking, of feeling, and comprehending things; she is so little accessible to the thousand weaknesses which are generally found in our good provincial ladies,--poor things,--that, in truth, one cannot help admiring her. Only consider that she lives all the year round within the precincts of her own village and estate, quite isolated, and that she remains a stranger to all the tittle-tattle of the locality; does not rail, slander, take offence, or choke and fret with curiosity; that envy, jealousy, aversion, and restlessness of body and mind, are all unknown to her; only consider this, and grant that she is a marvel. Every day after eleven o’clock she is dressed in a gown of iron-gray taffeta, and a white cap with long pure ribbons; she likes to eat, and make others do the same; but she eats moderately, and lets others follow her example. Preserves, fruits, pickled meats, are all intrusted to the housekeeper. With what, then, does she occupy herself, and how does she fill up her day? She reads, perhaps, you will say. No, she does not read; and, to speak the truth, people must think of others than Tatiana Borissovna when they print a book. In winter, if she is alone, our Tatiana Borissovna sits near a window, and quietly knits a stocking; in summer she goes and comes in her garden, where she plants and waters flowers, picks the caterpillars from her shrubs, puts props under her bushes, and sprinkles sand over the garden paths; then she can amuse herself for hours with the feathered race in her court-yard, with her kittens and pigeons, all of which she feeds herself. She occupies herself very little with housekeeping. If, unexpectedly, any good young neighbor chances to look in, she is then as happy as possible; she establishes herself upon her divan, regales her visitor with tea, hears all he has to say, sometimes gives him little friendly pats on the cheek, laughs heartily at his sallies, and speaks little herself. Are you annoyed, or the victim of some misfortune? She consoles you with the most sympathizing words, and opens up various means of relief, all full of good sense. How many there are, who, after confiding to her their family secrets and their private griefs, have found themselves so relieved by unburdening their minds, that they have bathed her hands with their tears. In general, she sits right before her guest, her head leaning lightly on her left hand, looking in his face with so much kindly interest, smiling with such friendly good-nature, that one can scarcely keep himself from saying, “Ah! what an excellent woman you are, Tatiana Borissovna. Come, I will conceal from you nothing that weighs upon my heart.” In her delightful, nice little rooms, one is so pleased with himself and everybody, that he is unwilling to leave them; in this little heaven, the weather is always at “set fair.”

The happiness of life may be greatly increased by small courtesies in which there is no parade, whose voice is too still to tease, and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks, and little kind acts of attention, giving others the preference in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking, sitting, or standing.--STERNE.

THE OLD MAN’S SONG.

TO HIS WIFE.

Oh, don’t be sorrowful, darling! Now don’t be sorrowful, pray! For, taking the year together, my dear, There isn’t more night than day.

’Tis rainy weather, my darling; Time’s waves they heavily run; But, taking the year together, my dear, There isn’t more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling; Our heads they are growing gray; But, taking the year all round, my dear, You will always find the May.

We’ve had our May, my darling, And our roses, long ago; And the time of the year is coming, my dear, For the long dark nights and the snow.

But God is God, my darling, Of night, as well as of day; And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way.

Ay, God of the night, my darling; Of the night of death so grim. The gate that from life leads out, good wife, Is the gate that leads to Him.

ANONYMOUS.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.

THE BIRTHDAY OF ----.

Now be the hours that yet remain to thee Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, That inextinguishably dwell within Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light To the most desolate moments, like the glow Of a bright fireside in the wildest day; And kindly words and offices of good Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates Of a more genial season, and thy path Be lost to human eye among the bowers And living fountains of a brighter land.

WM. C. BRYANT.

A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR GRANDFATHER.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half-way through.

He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child, “What do you here?” And the child said, “I am always at play. Come and play with me!”

So, he played with that child the whole day long, and they were very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds, and saw so many butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home--where was that, they wondered!--whistling and howling, and driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury. But when it snowed, that was the best of all; for they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and to see how smooth and deep the drift was, and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads.

They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books, all about scimitars and slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and giants, and genii and fairies, and blue-beards and bean-stalks, and riches, and caverns and forests, and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.

But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy, “What do you here?” And the boy said, “I am always learning. Come and learn with me.”