38 THE HOME OF A NATURALIST. 



without an occupant Many times has one stirred in 

 troubled sleep to find a tender soft hand upon the 

 fevered head, and tender soft eyes looking down in 

 maternal pity upon the little sufferer. 



An old bureau of dark wood, uncompromisingly 

 grim and square of build, stood against the wall ; its 

 pigeon-holes and drawers cramful of all those mis- 

 cellaneous odds and ends which we call "relics" 

 when they belong to ourselves, but wliich we desig- 

 nate " rubbish " when possessed by people in whose 

 family history we take little interest. 



It was the delight of our lives when our mother 

 would take out a trinket, a lock of hair, an old letter, 

 a quaint bit of dress, and tell us all about them. 



What romances of real life, some humorous, some 

 pathetic, were then unfolded ! what lessons she taught 

 with all she told ! 



That bureau could not hold all that it ought to have 

 held, so for a few years a new chest of drawers occupied 

 a place in the room, but it always looked an alien 

 among the old furniture, was never comfortable, never 

 seemed to fit any spot it was placed in, was frequently 

 shifted to what was hoped would be a more suitable 

 part of the room, finally was relegated to the guest- 

 chamber by household suffrage, and " Auntie Martha's " 

 bureau took its place. 



The " bulyament-box " was a great institution, and 

 always stood in some handy place ready to disgorge 

 its contents whenever a boy's garments wanted patching, 

 or a girl's doll required new raiment. JBleeding fingers, 



