Year: 1866

his boast that 'nobody on his farm laid a-bed
after the crack of day! he left the bed
room crossed the long, cool, dusky kitch
en- lifted the hasp that secured the back
door, aud went out into the fresh morning
air.


The east was just beginning to be sglow
with soft, rosy blush the rest of the sky
was indistinct and dull the robins twitter.
ed and darted from the nests in the plum
trees the earth was moist and fragrant with
its baptism of dew. By and by the fiery
sun would mount upward, and, with bis
hot breath, wilt and wither grass, tree, and
flower but now, all was cool and dusk, and
still, save for that ever-increasing twitter of
the robins and swallows which filled the air
of the summer morn.


Drawing bucket of water from the old
we'll, Deacon Morris poured it into the emp.
ty trough, stopped down and washed bis
face and hands, and stepped back to wipe
them on the coarse roller which hung just
inside the door; then went down the path
that led to the great barn. He swung its
doors wide open, letting ont strong fra
GRANGE of new. mown hay from the high
mows, and the heaped load yet stood on the
cart, filling up the centre of the barn floor; ;
stepped in and fed the horses; and then
went down to the yard where the cattle
we're. Buck and Bright, the two working
oxen, lay in one corner, quietly Illuminating,
doubtless of many years patient drawing
in sleds and carts; while group Of COWS
were in the other, huddled together, and
one large black one reposed in lonely dig
nifty in the middle of the yard, rolling her
great eyes with quick, bright glance upon
her master.


sGet up, there, Smut + said the deacon !;
while Chanticleer, perched on the topmost
rail of the fence, tapped his wings and
crowed with all might and main; and the
full uddered animal rose to her feet with an
ungainly motion, and, with a vicious lower.
ing of her brass mounted horns, retreated
among her sister group which set them
scattering in all directions.


Order was hardly restored, ere Mrs. Nor.
ris appeared at the barnyard gate with
couple of milking pals in her hands.


Tom Hood immortalized the toils-of Eng
lands sewing. women, who sat all day, and
deep into the uights, in sitting London gar.
rets, plying their needles to the sad refrain
of stitch stitch stitch !! the while their
hungry eyes were ever getting follower,
and their pinched faces were weary, wan,
and worm countless mournful mouodies,
more touching than the African Slaves
Lament have been written on that dusky
nation but what poets pen has ever chron-
icled the trials of the many overworked,
broken. down, New England farmers wives,
who have dragged-and still drag on-their
appointed rounds of toll, and never think
of lifting off the harness, until it crumbles
away from their poor weary frames at the
welcome call of the Master, who bringeth
not only sleep, but rest, to those be sum-
mons-even death.


Hannah Morris was one of these. When
she left her own home, at eighteen, to be.
come the wife of the 'likely young farmer
who was "a real WORKER and would be fore
handed before he died. her cheek was
blooming and her eye was bright; but twen-
ty years had aged her 80, that few would
have recognized the fact that she had ever
known a girhood of beauty or elasticity of
spirits, that now we're dead to her for ever.
more.


What a round of slavery that woman's
life had been! The mother of seven chill.
dren-the eldest and youngest Of whom had
been lain to rest in the old graveyard over
the hill-she had toiled hard at her tasks.
She had always risen at four in the morn
ing in summer, and five in winter; she
MIXED four COWS, and prepared the break.
fast for her family and the hired men made
butter and cheese for market, the sale of
which was added to her husbands boards,
at first to help pay off the mortgage from
the large farm he was trying to clear, and
then to swell the funds be was investing in
wood-lot and pastures; she raised focks of
turkeys and geese-from limited share of
whose profits, as the Thanksgiving annual
festivals came round, she was expected to
provide the winter stock of clothing for her.
self and family; she spun yarn for sale, and
all that used at home; knitted socks in the
long winter evenings; made and meuded
the clothes; dried apples, and preserved
fruits and berries did all the cooking,
sweeping, washing, and ironing; in short,
combined in herself the Offices of wife,
mother, housekeeper, and serVant-all in
the person of one slender, delicate woman,
who never found an uninterrupted hour to
open a book for the cultivation of her mind,
which hungered and starved the while.


Can you wonder that she crept into her
bed every night with pains and lameness in
every joint? that she aged so, that, at thir.
ty-eight, you would have thought her over
fifty ? that she wore habituually that crush.
ed, sad, weary look, as though life were very
burdensome, and the grave would not be so
very dreary when she laid down in it?


And yet no poet has ever written upon
this theme Possibly it is far too prosaic for
them. Now and then some English tourist,
who has been received into the families of
afluence this side the water, chronicles