DIGNITY OF LABOR. G5 



the homes of the poor are always the city's shame. I must not 

 now dwell upon that subject — it is the great reform which the 

 hour demands, the reform which we must make, or it will be 

 made one day in rough, wild way — demanded by justice, by 

 charity, by policy, by the love of our country ; but I turn to a 

 fairer picture. A southern friend said to me lately, I have 

 been in every State of our Union, but there is nothing so 

 beautiful after all as a New England village. There is an air 

 of refinement and good taste about the houses and gardens, a 

 certain neatness and propriety, which is seen in no other part 

 of the country. I confess that this flattery is very pleasing, for 

 it is significant of many things. 



This wish to adorn our homes is a silent recognition of the 

 truth, that there is something more than mere use and thrift 

 in the minds of our people. The house is not a shelter only 

 from the seasons ; it is the temple and altar of the affections. 



Near the ancient dwelling place of the Natick Indians there 

 is an old farm-house, with two vast, majestic elms before it, of 

 which a significant story is told. When the puritan preacher 

 in those by-gone days settled on that green slope by the River 

 Charles, he conciliated the natives by his sympathy and kind- 

 ness, and soon taught them to love and respect him. He had 

 lived there but a few months, when the Indians brought two 

 young elm trees from the forest, and with much form and 

 solemnity planted them before his door. He asked their 

 meaning, and they told him that they were "trees of peace." 

 These trees of peace were only tender saplings then, which a 

 child could carry in his hand, but they have grown to be 

 monumental trees, venerable in their majestic beauty. The 

 puritan settler, stern but kindly, — the red men, with their 

 dark, unfathomable eyes, — have vanished away, and rest beneath 

 their shade no more ; the old house is fast falling to decay ; 

 the trees, too, will fade and fall some day, but those old, simple 

 words have a more enduring life. I never look upon those 

 trees, but the words " trees of peace" return again with sweet, 

 soothing music. Yes, those words have their own natural 

 music, and will not leave off their singing. Trees of peace ! 

 Can you not see those vast gray, gigantic arms, stretching over 

 the roof-tree to shelter and protect that quiet home — dropping 

 down their rich, waving clusters of green leaves, and waving 



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