362 



NEW ENGLAND FAR^EER. 



Dec. 



THOUGHTS FOK DECEMBEK. 

 "Wljen icicles hang by the wall, 



And Dick, the shephtrJ, blows the nail, 

 And Tom bears logs into the hall. 



And milk comes froien home m pail : 

 When blood is nipt." — Sha^sfea&e. 



"Poor, naked wretches, whereso'er yoa are, 

 That bide the pelrings of the pitiless storm, 

 Hoir shall your houseless heads and unfed sides. 

 Your loop^ and windowed raggedness, defend yon 

 From seasons snch as these ?" Shakspeake. 



IXTER, in this 

 region, is truly 

 a season of 

 dreariness and 

 desolation, t o 

 such as the po- 

 et describes. It 

 comes upon us 

 ^^^J^ with its stem 

 ^^^^^ and forbidding 

 brow wreathed 

 about with clouds, 

 and mounted on 

 the car of storms as the conquer- 

 "^ or and annihilator of all that is 

 bright, and beautiful, and lovely on earth. Des- 

 olate Winter ! The shorn fields are palely gleam- 

 ing in the spectral sunlight — the grand old woods 

 are the temples of silence, sa^ where the icy 

 winds, moaning through their verdureless aisles, 

 tell us that "Nature is passing through the dark 

 valley typical of death." Yes, Winter is here in 

 all bis stern and stirring pomp. The long nights 

 have come, the long, dark, winter nights, when in 

 social isolation we draw the heavy curtains, and 

 sit down by our hearths to meditate and to dream. 

 The light has left the starry skies that bended 

 over us in youth, and the heavy storm-charged 

 clouds roll up, and grow heavier and darker as we 

 muse. From the present we turn back with mem- 

 ory, and over all the past we wander. 



"Once more the fiiggot blaze is bright 



rx>on onr father's hearth ; 

 Once more the shalows en the wall 



Invite to sinless mirth. 

 Once more our mother's voice we hear, 



An echo from the past. 

 Recalling love too sweet and pore. 



And scenes too bright to last." 



How well, at such times, do we remember the 

 little cottage nestled, amid the gray old hills, and 

 the whole picture of our childhood's home — its in- 

 nocent sport-1, its warm and unselfish affections, 

 and the old familiar words that rang out from the 

 old familiar lips their silver syllables. And with 

 what an intense joy, as this cloud-land rises upon 

 our mental vision, do we listen again to the joy- 

 ous laugh, the gush of the heart's sweet song, and 

 fancy that we feel the pressure of lips long cold, 

 once more warm and loving upon our own. Again 



"They come in dim procession led, 

 The cold, the faithless and the dead ; 

 Each hand as warm, each brow as gay. 

 As if we parted yesterday." 



The glad beaming face of the young creature we 

 first worshipped with all the innocence of love's 

 first delusion, sparkles with the radiant beauty of • 

 those happy hours. The mother, in that quiet 

 chamber, with the dim lamp and snowy curtains 

 gleaming out from the comer, where we knelf at 

 her side and listened to the evening prayer, lifts 

 her white hands to her brow again, and says, — 

 "God bless and keep thee, my boy !" God help 

 us now ! how have we wandered since our souls 

 first felt that earnest benediction ! At such times, 

 if ever in this life, 



"We lift our tmsting eyes 



From the hills our fathers trod. 

 To the sunshine of the skies, 



To the Sabbath of our God." 



But hark ! 'Tis the voice of the tempest in its 

 wrath. It has the voice of a demon out there. 

 Our thoughts are driven homeward by its wild 

 tones, and the Present once more triumphs over 

 the Past. Another picture is presented for our 

 contemplation — a picture of the poor, the needy 

 and the desolate, who sit shivering ragged and 

 desolate. The pallid brow and sunken eye of the 

 invalid mother, around whose slowly-beating heart 

 no earthly hope sheds its blessed light, sits sur- 

 rounded by her starving and helpless ones, and 

 growing paler and sadder as the storm rolls on. 

 To her, alas ! beyond the sombre and desolate 

 walls of her own dwelling, the world is a blank. 

 Its sympathies and its charities are foreign to her 

 wants. Pale weeper by the cheerless hearth ! 

 the winds that are eve# now wailing thy requiem 

 up in yonder sky , are not colder than, sometimes, 

 the charity of this cold world, — but it is not all so. 



As we sit by our own bright hearths, surround- 

 ed by the blessings of God, let us remember the 

 poor. As we partake of His bountiful goodness, 

 we should think of those upon whom the storm of 

 adversity has broken, and the clouds of affliction 

 poured their bitter rain. A little, judiciously dis- 

 pensed from the basket of our abundance, will 

 cause many a cold heart to throb with gratitude, 

 and bring the sunshine of joy to many a desolate 

 home. No man can better afford to be charitable 

 than the farmer, for, of all men, he is the most di- 

 rectly and abundantly favored of Providence, and 

 should, therefore, be the most willing almoner of 

 His bounties. 



"He who giveth to the poor, lendeth to the 

 Lord." 



^^ Late English papers state that the potato rot * 

 has suddenly appeared in Ireland, destroying a 

 large portion of the crop. This fact has tended to 

 increase emigration, and the people were leaving 

 in large numbers for Canada and the United States. 



