Is famed for tales of little girls and boys

Who all die out because they only feed

On weak green tea and Bible;—she herself,
As often chances in this evil world,

Is better than her books; serene and kind,
A fine old lady; loving all the more
Her quiet now, in contrast with the time
When she was tortured daily, ere the scamp
Whom the world called her husband ran away.
Two children has she, daughters; one just wed
Unto a country bank; for even you,

With all your charity, could not describe

As man the thing that owns her, nor does she; Although she snubs her mother on the strength Of her dominion o'er his bunch of keys.

So much for two; and what about the third?
Something about her struck me; she appeared
To bear about her traces of an air

More cosmopolitan than that she breathed.
I claimed her early (for a waltz, I think);

And when we paused, and that was soon enough, She asked me, rather bluntly, what I thought

Not seemed to think, but really thought, she said— Of dancing as a midnight exercise

For creatures blessed with souls as well as brains?

I gave a start, half-dreading, in my haste,

A Calvinistic sermon, which to me

Is certain dissolution; this she saw,

And eagerly disclaimed a thought so rash.

I told her then my fancy, which you know.

She looked half-pleased. And as for you ?' I said. 'And as for me, I hate it,' she replied,

With such a smile, and such a looking-up,

And such emphatic motion of her heel,

I could not doubt her truth. We danced no more,
Nor did she through the evening, I suspect,

Attracting thus the more than muttered wrath
Of her stern sister, now incorporate

With safes and oaken desks, and greasy shreds
Of printed rag, entitled country notes.

(I have one by me, meaning it to pass, An heirloom, to my dim posterity.)

And so I made a friend. This all?' you ask;
O man, how long shall words be spent in vain
To teach thee how that not alone by speech,

That not alone in cards and morning calls,

Doth live the thing called friendship! Impious

wretch,

To use that word, that sin-suggester—' all !'

Perhaps you did not; so my vials yet

Shall keep their corks in and their capsules on
Until I feel more certain. But withal

Prepare me now a lodging; which implies
Due warning unto her I may not name,
Much less address by letter, in the dread
Of misconstruction such as waited on

The notes of Mr. Pickwick, that my mind
Turns townward now, and that my body comes
On Tuesday, by the midday train from here.

I I

LETTER II.

GERTRUDE TO A FRIEND.

From a country town: Jan. 3, 18-2.

A THOUSAND thanks, dear, for your tiny note;
The number that you send, I well believe,
Is the true reason for its brevity.

But do not think of that; a word from you
Is always welcome, and my husband, too,
(I grow familiar with my dignity),

Was pleased for me to get it. When you feel
At liberty to see us (this from him),
Nothing will please him better than to make
Your family's acquaintance; as for me,

I know that I am always dear to you,
And so refrain from suchlike messages.
But what! I overlook the star and gem

Of your epistle! Really is it true

That Julia is immutably engaged,

And to a coronet? at least to what

May some day be one? Quite I understand
Your father's feeling; after such a life
Of tearing up and down, of casting off
And putting on, I think if she should now
Do aught again to mar her prospects, he
Might well be vexed. But then I know she won't,
And therefore think your father might have spared
His somewhat coarse expression. Give her, dear,

My very kindest love; you know at school

We always called her countess.

As for me

(That phrase is quite an heirloom in our house;
Mamma is always using it)—for me,—
Why, yes, I flourish. Yesterday we had
What we called quite a gathering, what you
Would sneer at as an unsuccessful squeeze.
But, seriously, we did most passably;