And on the glass the unmeaning beat
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet.

Beyond the circle of our hearth

No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified
Of human life and thought outside.
We minded that the sharpest ear
The buried brooklet could not hear,
The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.

PARAPHRASE XII.

Study especially curious, mimic, pendent, trammels, transfigured, visible.

As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled with care our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back,—
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.

The crane and pendent trammels showed,
The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed;
While childish fancy, prompt to tell
The meaning of the miracle,

Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree,
When fire out doors burns merrily,
There the witches are making tea."

Discriminate between remember, recollect. Study carefully this fine description of a person.

As one who held herself a part

Of all she saw, and let her heart

Against the household bosom lean,

Upon the motley-braided mat

Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,

Now bathed within the fadeless green

And holy peace of Paradise.

Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,
Or from the shade of saintly palms,
Or silver reach of river calms,

Do those large eyes behold me still? With me one little year ago:

The chill weight of the winter snow

For months upon her grave has lain;
And now, when summer south winds blow,
And brier and harebell bloom again,
I tread the pleasant paths we trod,
I see the violet-sprinkled sod
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak
The hillside flowers she loved to seek,
Yet following me where'er I went
With dark eyes full of love's content.
The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills
The air with sweetness; all the hills
Stretch green to June's unclouded sky;
But still I wait with ear and eye

For something gone which should be nigh,
A loss in all familiar things,

In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.
And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,
Am I not richer than of old?

Safe in thy immortality,

What change can reach the wealth I hold?
What chance can mar the pearl and gold
Thy love hath left in trust with me?
And while in life's late afternoon,

When cool and long the shadows grow,

I walk to meet the night that soon

Shall shape and shadow overflow,

I cannot feel that thou art far,
Since near at need the angels are;
And when the sunset gates unbar,
Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
And, white against the evening star,
The welcome of thy beckoning hand?

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

EXERCISES IN COMPOSITION.

DEVELOPMENT XX.

THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW.

It stands in a sunny meadow,

The house, so mossy and brown,
With its cumbrous old stone chimneys,
And the gray roof sloping down.

The trees fold their green arms around it—
The trees a century old-

And the winds go chanting through them,
And the sunbeams drop their gold.

The cowslips spring in the marshes,

The roses bloom on the hill,

And beside the brook in the pasture,

The herds go feeding at will.

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

Develop this descriptive poem, and weave in with it a sketch of a person whose home you may suppose this "House in the Meadow" to be. Take a character from actual life, changing, however, to suit your purpose. This and the following themes are principally descriptive, but narration need not be excluded entirely.

DEVELOPMENT XXI.

A FARM PICTURE.

An old farm-house nearly hidden among trees. Ample barns. Fields of grain. Meadows with cattle grazing. Roads running between fields. Men busy in the fields. Children gathering berries.

DEVELOPMENT XXII.

A MORNING SCENE.

A clear summer morning. A quiet stream bordered by rushes and trees. One large tree leaning over the stream. Pond lilies upon its surface. Mossy stones. Birds singing. Cattle standing in the water, or coming to drink. Suitable reflections.

DEVELOPMENT XXIII.

CLEON AND I.

Cleon hath a million acres; ne'er a one have I:
Cleon dwelleth in a palace; in a cottage, I:
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes; not a penny, I:
Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.

Cleon true possesseth acres; but the landscape, I —
Half the charms to me it yieldeth, money cannot buy:
Cleon harbors sloth and dulness; freshening vigor, I:
He in velvet, I in fustian; richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur; free as thought am I:
Cleon fees a score of doctors; need of none have I:
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die;
Death may come,— he'll find me ready; happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charms in Nature; in a daisy, I:

Clcon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky;

Nature sings to me forever — earnest listener, I:

State for state, with all attendants, who would change? not I.

CHARLES MACKAY.

This poem offers a fine opportunity for contrasting descriptions of both landscape and persons.