246 
AMEKICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
llmritama 
INVOCATION TO THE NEW YEAH. 
BY TENNYSON. 
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 
Ring out, wildfbells, and let him die. 
Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring happy belle, across the snow; 
The year is going, let him go; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 
Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless, coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 
Ring out old shades of foul disease, 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold, 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 
R'mg in the Christ that is to be. 
THE DEATH OF GRIMES’ HEN. 
BY MICHEL STEINHOITER. 
At last the speckled hen is gone— 
That hen of hens the best; 
She died without a sigh or groan, 
While in her downy nest. 
Through summer’s heat and winter’s snow, 
For ten long years she lay, 
At noon and eve, old Grimes an egg, 
But none the Sabbath day. 
She had a nest behind the door, 
All neatly lined with hay ; 
Her back was brown, and speckled o’er 
With spots “ inclined to gray.” 
Though fourteen years of age almost, 
She still looked young and hale— 
And like Job’s turkey she could boast 
One feather in her tail. 
The neighbors’ fowls did all agree 
She was a good old soul; 
She sometimes roosted in a tree, 
And sometimes on a pole. 
Whene’er the rain came pelting down, 
And thunders’ deadful roar, 
She hid herself in Grimes’ hat, 
Until the storm was o’er. 
She lived a plain and honest life— 
No higher wished to rise, 
She flew at neighbor Sampson’s wife, 
And scratched out both her eyes. 
She never deigned the barn-yard beau, 
His face to look upon, 
And loved but one, whose long shrill crow 
Was heard at early dawn— 
An aged cock, who oft had told 
His descent with a sigh, 
From one that crow’d when he of old, 
His master did deny. 
When poor old speckled closed her eye, 
He jumped the fence and cried— 
He bid the poultry all good-bye, 
And then laid down and died. 
Kind reader now we’ll drop a tear 
To Grimes’ speckled hen; 
It is too true, we ne’er shall look 
U pon her like again. 
WINTER. 
Slowly, thickly, fastly, fall the snow-flakes— 
like seasons upon the life of man. At the first, 
they lose themselves in the brown mat of her¬ 
bage, or gently melt, as they fall upon the broad 
stepping-stone at the door. But as hour after 
hour passes, the feathery flakes stretch their 
white cloak plainly on the meadow, and children 
the door-steps with their multitudes, covering it 
with a mat of pearls. 
The dried grass tips pierce the mantle of 
white, like so many serried spears, but as the 
storm goes softly on, they sink one by one 
to their snowy tomb, and present^ 7 show 
nothing of all their army, save one or two strag¬ 
gling banners of blackened and shrunken daisies. 
Across the wide meadow that stretches from 
my window 7 , I can see nothing of those hills, 
which were so green in summer; between me 
and them, lie only the soft, slow-moving masses, 
filling the air w 7 ith whiteness; I catch only the 
glimpse of one guant, and bare-armed oak, loom¬ 
ing through the feathery multitude, like a tall 
ship’s spars breaking through the fog. 
The roof of the barn is covered, and the leak¬ 
ing eaves show dark stains of water, that trickle 
down the weather-beaten boards. The pear 
trees that wore such a weight of greenness in 
the leafy June, now stretch their bare arms to 
the snowy blast, and carry upon each tiny bough 
a narrow 7 burden of winter. 
The old house-dog marches stately through 
the strange covering of earth, and seems to pon¬ 
der on the w r elcome he will show 7 , and stalks 
again to his dry covet in the shed. The lambs 
that belong to the meadow 7 flock, w’ith their feed¬ 
ing ground all covered, seem to wonder at their 
loss; but take courage from the quiet air of the 
veteran sheep, and gambol after them, as they 
move sedately towards the shelter of the barn. 
The cat, driven from the kitchen door, beats 
a coy retreat, with long reaches of her foot, 
upon the yielding surface. The matronly hens 
saunter out at a little lifting of the storm ; and 
eye curiously with heads half-turned their sink¬ 
ing steps ; and then fell back with a quiet cluck 
of satisfaction, to the wholesome gravel by the 
stable door. 
By and by the snow flakes pile more leisurely; 
they grow large and scattered, and come more 
slowdy than before. The hills that were brown, 
heave into sight—great rounded billows of 
w 7 hite. The gay woods look shrunken to half 
their height, and stand waving in the storm. 
The wind freshens, and scatters the light flakes 
that crown the burden of the snow, and as the 
day droops, a clear bright sky of steel color, 
cleaves the land, and sends down a chilling wind 
to bank the w 7 alls, and to freeze in the storm. 
The moon rises full and .round, and plays a joy¬ 
ous chill over the glistening raiment of the 
land. 
I pile my fire with clean cleft hickory, and 
musing over some sweet story of the olden time, 
I wander into a rich realm of thought, until my 
eyes grow dim, and dreaming of battle and of 
prince, I fell to sleep in my old farm chamber. 
At morning, I find my dreams all written on 
the window, in crystals of fairy shape. The 
cattle one by one, with ears frost-tipped, and 
with frosty noses, wend their way to the water¬ 
ing place in the meadow. One by one they 
drink, and crop the stunted herbage, which the 
warm spring keeps green and bare. 
A hound bays in the distance; the smoke of 
cottages rises straight towards heaven; a lazy 
jingle of sleigh bells wakens the quiet of the 
high road and upon the hills, the leafless woods 
stand low, like crouching armies with guns and 
spears in sest; and among them, the scattered 
spiral pines rise like banner-men, uttering with 
their thousand and one tongues of green, the 
proud war-cry—“ God is with us.” 
But the' sky of winter is as capacious as the 
sky of spring — even as the old wander in 
thought, like the vagaries of a boy. 
Before noon, the heavens are mantled with a 
leaden gray, the eaves that dripped in the glow 
of the sun, now tell their tale of morning’s 
warmth, in crystal ranks of icicles. The cattle 
seek their shelter, and the few lingering leaves 
of the white oaks, rustle dismally, and the pines 
breathe signs of mourning. As the night dark¬ 
ens and deepens the storm, the house-dog bays, 
and the children crouch in the wide chimney 
corners, and the sleety rain comes in sharp 
gusts. x\nd, as I sit by the light, leaping blaze 
in my chamber, the scattered hail-drops beat 
upon my window, like the tappings of an Old 
Man’s cane . — Author Unknown. 
THE GOVERNOR AND THE BOYS; 
OR now HE SAVED HIS FRUIT. 
“Tnu severest punishment I ever received.” 
This, Mr. Editor, was the closing remark of a 
venerable and respected friend, when giving me 
an account, a few days ago, of one of his boyish 
pranks in Old Boston. I wish I could tell the 
story as he tells it; but it is so good, and in my 
opinion, teaches so admirable a lesson to us all, 
that I venture to hope it may find a place in 
your pages, even in the shape in which I shall 
attempt it. 
My old friend, raised in Boston, brought up 
and nurtured within the shadow of Old South, 
was, in his younger days, like most other boys, 
considerably addicted to the consumption of 
ripe fruit, and not very keenly perceptive of 
the laws of meum and tuum in obtaining it. I 
will not stop to inquire whether this weakness 
he inherited direct from our first parents ; it is 
sufficient that my friend was completely under 
its influence, that even the fine fruit of Mr. 
Bowdoin’s garden was no exception to those 
agrarian notions which the boys of the town 
applied to all the fruit on the peninsula. 
Mr. Bowdoin’s garden then occupied an area 
which is now covered with brick, mortar, and 
paving stones. It was defended by a wall, the 
altitude of which was considered by the whole 
school as one of their prime grievances. A 
portion of this wall, however, had become 
somewhat ruinous, a breach was reported prac¬ 
ticable, and half a dozen chosen boys were se¬ 
lected for the attack. My old friend was one of 
the number, the appointed time was between 
one and two P. M., when it was conjectured 
that Mr. B. and his family would be at dinner. 
The stormers assemble—the breach is carried 
in gallant style, and stomachs, pockets, trousers, 
and even shirt-bosoms are quickly filled with 
the forbidden fruit. A triumphant retreat is 
already anticipated, but as the little band draws 
near to the breach—horror of horrors!—it is 
discovered to be in possession of a sturdy ser¬ 
vant-man of Mr. B., supported by a huge bam¬ 
boo, and retreat by any other pass is out of the 
question. Stomachs, probably, remained in 
statu quo , but all other engines of transport 
are quickly relieved of their burdens—the in¬ 
vaders draw nearer to the breach, intending to 
make a rush; but are informed by the sturdy 
guard, that “Mr. Bowdoin is in the parlor, and 
wishes to see the young gentlemen.” 
Flight is in vain, and with palpitating hearts, 
our heroes march, in single file, towards the 
house, the servant-man and the bamboo cover¬ 
ing the rear. The posse was met at the hall- 
door by the good Mr. Bowdoin, who made them 
