Chapter XIV: Recovery from sickness.--Change of character.--Story of a quack

In about two months after my accident, I rose from the sick bed, and was permitted to walk abroad. Although it was autumn, and the sere and yellow leaves were now nearly stript from the trees, the face of nature bore an aspect of loveliness to me. I had so long been shut up, and excluded alike from fresh air and the out-door scenes of life, that I was like a man long deprived of food, with a ravenous appetite and a full meal before him. I enjoyed everything; the air, the landscape, the walk--each and all delighted me. My fever was entirely gone, and, having nothing but weakness to contend with, I recovered my former state of health and strength in the course of a few weeks.

But I was not restored to my full flow of spirits--nor, indeed, from that day, have I ever felt again the joyous gush of boyhood emotions. My accident, attended by the wholesome shame it produced, had in no small degree abated my self-appreciation. I was humbled, if not before the world, at least in my own esteem. My sick-bed reflections, too, had served to sober my mind, and give me a sense of responsibility I had never felt before. I had, in short, passed from the gay thoughtlessness of a boy to somewhat of the sobriety of manhood.

I did not, myself, remark the change in my manners or my character; but others did. My uncle, particularly, noticed it, and became uneasy, or, rather, vexed about it. He was a jolly old man, and wished everybody else to be jolly too. Nor could he readily comprehend why such a change should have come over me: he did not easily appreciate sickness, or its effects; nor did he estimate the sobering influences of reflection. He insisted upon it that I was “_in the dumps_” about something; and, half in jest and half in earnest, he scolded me from morn to night.

In spite of all this, I continued to be a much more serious personage than before, and my uncle at last became alarmed. Though a man of pretty good sense, in general, he entertained a contempt for physicians, especially those engaged in regular practice. If he had faith in any, it was in those who are usually called quacks. He believed that the power of healing lay rather in some natural gift, than in the skill acquired by study and practice. As usually happens in such cases, any impudent pretender could deceive him, and the more gross the cheat, the more readily was he taken in, himself. Having made up his mind that I was, as he expressed himself, “in a bad way,” he was casting about as to what was to be done, when, one evening, a person, notorious in those days, and an inhabitant of a neighboring town, chanced to stop at the tavern. This person was called Dr. Farnum, and, if I may use the expression, he was a _regular_ quack.

I happened to be in the bar-room when the doctor came. He was a large, stout man, with grizzled hair, a long cue adown his back, and a small, fiery, gray eye. This latter feature was deep-set beneath a shaggy eyebrow, and seemed as restless as a red squirrel upon a tree, of a frosty morning. It was perpetually turning from object to object, seeming to take a keen and prying survey of everything around, as we sometimes see a cat, when entering a strange room. The doctor’s dress was even more remarkable than his person: he wore small-clothes--the fashion of the time--and top-boots, the upper portion being not a little soiled and fretted by time and use. His hat had a rounded crown, in the manner of an ancient helmet; and the brim, of enormous width, was supported on each side by strings running to the crown. His over-coat was long and ample, and of that reddish brown, called butternut color. I noticed that the hat and boots were of the same hue, and afterwards learned that this was a point of importance, for the person in question assumed and maintained the designation of the “_but’nut doctor_.”

Having greeted my uncle heartily, and said “good day” to the loungers around the fire, he took a seat, spread his feet apart, and, sliding his hands up and down his legs, from the thigh to the shin-bone, called for a glass of flip. This was soon provided, and taking a large quid of tobacco out of his mouth--which he held in his hand, to be restored to its place after the liquor was discussed--he applied himself to the steaming potation. Having tasted this, and smacked his lips, a lickerish smile came over his face, and turning round to the company, he said, in an insinuating tone--“Does any on ye know of any body that’s sick in these parts?”

There was a momentary pause--and then Mat Olmstead, the standing wag of the village, replied: “Nobody, I guess, unless it’s Deacon Kellig’s cow.”

“Well,” said the doctor, not at all abashed at the titter which followed--“well, _I_ can cure a cow; it’s not as if I was one of your college-larnt doctors; I should then be too proud to administer to a brute. But, the scriptur’ says, a marciful man is marciful to a beast--and I prefer follerin’ scriptur’ to follerin’ the fashion. If Providence has given me a gift, I shall not refuse to bestow it on any of God’s critters that stand in need on ’t.”

“Well,” said Matthew, “do you cure a cow with the same physic that you cure a man?”

“Why not?” said Farnum; “it’s better to be cured by chance, than killed by rule. The pint is, to get cured, in case of sickness, whether it’s a beast, or a man. Nater’s the great physician, and I foller that.”

“What is nater?” said Olmstead.

“Nater? Ah, that’s the question! Nater’s----nater!”--

“Indeed?--but can’t you tell us what it is?”

“I guess I could, if I tried: it’s the most mysteriousest thing in the univarsal world. I’ve looked into ’t, and I know. Now, when a cow has lost the cud, so that it won’t work up or down, I go to a place where there’s some elder; then I cut some strips of the bark _up_; and I cut some on ’t _down_; and I cut some on ’t _round and round_. I then make a wad on ’t, and put it down the cow’s throat. That part of the bark that’s cut up, brings the cud up; that part that’s cut down, carries it down; and that part that’s cut round and round, makes it work round and round: and so, you see, there’s a kind of huzzlety muzzlety, and it sets everything agoin’, and all comes right, and the critter’s cured as clean as mud. That’s what I call nater!”

This speech was uttered with a very knowing air, and it seemed to derive additional authority from the long cue and broad brim of the speaker. He looked around, and perceived a sort of awful respect in the countenances of the hearers. Even the shrewd and satirical Matthew was cowed by the wisdom and authority of the doctor. My uncle, who had hitherto stood behind the bar, now came forward, and, sitting down by his side, inquired how it was that he had gained such a wonderful sight of knowledge.

“Why,” says Farnum, “there ’tis agin, squire; it’s nater--it’s clear nater. I never went to college, but I had a providential insight into things from my childhood. Now, here’s my but’nut physic--it’s true, an Indian give me the fust notion on’t; but I brought it to perfection, from my own study into nater. Now, all them doctors’ stuffs that you git at the pottekary’s, is nothin’ but pizen; thur’s no nater in’t. My physic is all yarbs--every mite on’t. I can cure a man, woman, or child, jest as sure as a cat’ll lick butter! There’s no mistake.”

“Well, how did you find it out, doctor?” said my uncle, seeming anxious to give him an opportunity to unfold his wisdom.

“Can you tell why a duck takes to water?” said Farnum, with a look of conscious importance. “It’s because it’s in him. ’Twas jest so with me. I had a nateral instinct that telled me that there was something very mysterious in the number seven. I expect I got some on’t from the scriptur’, for there’s a great deal there about it. Well, one dark, rainy night, as I was goin’ along thro’ some woods, thinkin’ about somethin’ or other, I came to a bridge over a river. The wind was blowin’ desput hard, and it seemed to go through me like a hetchel through a hand of flax. I stood there a minit, and then I looked down into the dark water, wolloping along; and, thinks I, it’s all exactly like human nater. Well, now, if you’ll believe me, jest as that are thought crossed my mind, I heerd a hoot-owl in the woods. He hooted jest seven times, and then he stopped. Then he hooted seven times more, and so kept goin’ on, till he’d hooted jest forty-nine times. Now, thinks I to myself, this must mean somethin’, but I couldn’t tell what. I went home, but I didn’t sleep any. The next day I couldn’t eat anything, and, in fact, I grew as thin as a June shad. All the time I was thinkin’ of the bridge, and the wind whistlin’, and the river, and the dark rollin’ water, and the hoot-owl that spoke to me seven times seven times.

“Well, now, there was an Indian in the place, who was famous for curin’ all sorts of diseases with yarbs. I went to see him one day, and tell’d him I was sick. He ax’d me what was the matter, and I related the story of the owl. ‘You are the man I have been seeking for,’ said he. ‘The spirit of the night has told me that I shall soon die; and he has commanded me to give my secret to one that shall be sent. In seven weeks from the time that you were at the bridge, meet me there at midnight.’

“True to the appointment, I went to the bridge. It was a rainy night agin, and agin the wind howled over the bridge--agin the owl was there, and agin he lifted up his voice forty-nine times. At that moment I saw the dark Indian come upon the bridge. He then told me his secret. ‘Man,’ said he, ‘is subject to seven times seven diseases; and there are seven times seven plants made for their cure. Go, seek, and you shall find!’ Saying this, the dark figure leaped over the bridge, and disappeared in the waters. I stood and heerd a gurgling and choking sound, and saw somethin’ strugglin’ in the stream; but the Indian disappeared, and I have never seen him sence. I went from the place, and I soon found the forty-nine yarbs, and of these I make my pills. Each pill has seven times seven ingredients in it; though but’nut’s the chief, and that’s why it’s called but’nut physic. You may give it in any disease, and the cure for ’tis there. I’ve tried it in nine hundred and thirty-seven cases, and it haint failed but six times, and that, I reckon, was for want of faith. Here’s some of the pills; there’s forty-nine in a box, and the price is a dollar.”

Such was the doctor’s marvellous tale, and every word of it was no doubt a fiction.

It may seem strange that such an impostor as this should succeed; but, for some reason or other, mankind love to be cheated by quacks. This is the only reason I can assign for the fact, that Dr. Farnum sold six boxes of his pills before he left the tavern, and one of them to my uncle. The next day he insisted upon my taking seven of them, and, at his urgent request, I complied. The result was, that I was taken violently ill, and was again confined to my room for a fortnight. At length I recovered, and my uncle insisted that if I had not taken the pills, I should have had a much worse turn; and, therefore, it was regarded as a remarkable proof of the efficacy of Farnum’s pills. Some two or three years after, I saw my own name in the doctor’s advertisement, among a list of persons who had been cured in a wonderful manner, by the physic of the butter-nut doctor.

I have thought it worth while to note these incidents, because they amused me much at the time, and proved a lesson to me through life--which I commend to all my readers--and that is, never to place the slightest confidence in a quack.

The Apple; a German Fable.

There lived a rich man at the court of King Herod. He was lord chamberlain, and clothed himself in purple and costly linen, and lived every day in magnificence and joy. Then there came to him, from a distant country, a friend of his youth, whom he had not seen for many years.

And to honor him, the chamberlain made a great feast, and invited all his friends. There stood on the table a great variety of excellent viands, in gold and silver dishes, and costly vessels with ointment, together with wine of every kind.

And the rich man sat at the head of the table, and was hospitable to all; and his friend who had come from a distant country, was at his right hand. And they ate and drank, and were satisfied.

Then the stranger addressed the chamberlain of the king: Such splendor and magnificence as your house contains, is not to be found in my country, far and wide! And he spoke highly of his magnificence, and pronounced him the happiest of men.

But the rich man, the king’s chamberlain, selected an apple from a golden dish. The apple was large and beautiful, and its colour was red, approaching purple. And he took the apple and said, This apple has rested on gold, and its form is very beautiful! And he reached it to the stranger and friend of his youth.

And the friend cut the apple, and behold! in its middle was a worm! Then the stranger cast his eyes on the chamberlain. But the lord chamberlain looked upon the ground and sighed.

The Pretender and his Sister.

“The _Pretender_! What a curious title!--and pray who can he be, Mr. Merry? And who is the girl at his side, that you call his sister?”

I will answer these questions, my gentle reader,--and let me tell you now, that there is nothing I like better than to answer the inquiries of my young friends, when I am able.

Well, as to this Pretender--he was a personage that figured in the history of England, some hundred years ago. His name was Charles Edward. He was a grandson of Charles II., a king of England, who was driven from the throne about the year 1690; and, thinking that his father, James III., ought to be king of England, he determined to make an effort to set him upon the throne. He was born 1720, and when he was twenty-two years old, he entered upon this great project.

Being at Rome, he induced the Pope to espouse his cause; he then went to Paris, and king Louis XV., having promised to assist him, fitted out a fleet, with 15,000 men; but they were defeated by the English, as they were on the point of sailing. After this, the French king would do no more for Prince Charles Edward, and the daring young man set out, in 1745, in a little vessel of eighteen guns, and arms for 1500 men.

He landed on the northwest coast of Scotland, and the people there seemed delighted to see him. He was a descendant of the former kings of Scotland, of the Stuart line, and it was natural enough for them to have a feeling of favor for one who thus claimed kindred with them. Accordingly, the Scottish nobles flocked to the standard of Edward, bringing with them hundreds of their brave soldiers.

He was soon at the head of a large and powerful army. With this he marched forward, defeated the English troops that advanced to meet him, and, in three months after his arrival, he took Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland.--France now sent him aid, and, with a force of 7000 men, he marched southward into England, and took the town of Carlisle. At Preston Pans, he defeated an English army of 4000 strong; and such was his success, that the English government, under King William, of Orange, trembled for their safety.

They therefore made great efforts, and in April, 1746, they sent a large army against him, under the Duke of Cumberland. At Culloden, the two armies met, and a terrible battle followed; Prince Edward was defeated, and his army entirely dispersed. He was scarce able to save his life by flight; and, indeed, he wandered about, from place to place, among the wilds of Scotland, being every day in danger of being seized and given up to the English government, who offered $150,000 to anybody who would bring him to them. It seems strange that so large a bribe could be resisted; but, such was the love that the Scottish people bore him, and such their fidelity, that no one was found to betray him, though many people were entrusted with the secret of his being among them. Even the poor mountaineers refused to give him up, though offered a sum of money that would have made them very rich.

At last, a faithful Scottish nobleman, by the name of O’Neil, took him in charge, and after wandering along the sea-shore in a skiff, flying from island to island, and experiencing the greatest sufferings and dangers, he was put on board a French frigate, that had been sent for his rescue. He was now taken to France, and soon after, giving up all hopes of seeing his family restored to the throne, he settled in Italy, where he died in 1788, in the 68th year of his age. He was the last of the Stuart line, and was called the _Pretender_, on account of his _pretending_ to set up claims to the throne of England.

Winter.

December has come! Winter is here! These are common-place words, but they mean more, perhaps, than we are apt to consider.

Winter, then, means that the myriad leaves of the forest are shrivelled and torn from the trees, and scattered in the valley: it means that the sap of the trees has ceased to flow, and that these giants of the vegetable world have passed into a state of stupor, in which they must remain till spring again returns.

Winter means that the myriad races of annual weeds and plants are dead, to revive again no more; that myriads of blossoms have faded forever from the view; that the verdure of the forest has passed away; that the gemmed garment of the meadow is exchanged for the thin, brown mantle of leanness and poverty; that the velvet of the lawn has given place to the scanty covering of dried and faded grass.

Winter means that the minstrelsy of the birds is gone, and that the field and forest, so lately cheered by a thousand forms and sounds of happy existence are now silent, or rendered more dreary and desolate by the moaning winds. It means that the birds are gone to their southern retreats; that the myriad races of insects are dead; that the whole generation of butterflies has perished; that the grasshoppers have sung their last song; that even the pensive cricket has gone to his long home. It means that death has breathed on our portion of the world, and that nature herself, as if weary of her efforts, has fallen into a cold and fearful slumber.

Winter means all these melancholy things; but it also means something more. It means that the granary of the farmer is full; that his barn is supplied; that there is good and ample store for the beasts that look to man for support, and for man himself. It means, too, that the comfortable fire will be kindled, around which the family will assemble, and where, secure from the bitter blast without, there will still be peace, comfort, and content. It means, too, that there is such a thing as poverty, shivering, without fire, without food--perhaps, without sufficient shelter; and it means that charity should seek and save those who are suffering in such a condition.

And winter means something more than all this: it means, by its examples of decay and death, to teach us that we, too, must pass away; and that it is well for us to make preparation for the great event. Winter also brings us to the end of the year, and suggests a serious self-inquiry, and self-examination. It would ask us if the last year has been one of profit or loss? Are we better, and wiser, than when it began? Are we more kind, more just, more patient, more faithful, more fond of truth?--Summer is the season for the harvest of the field; winter is the season for the moral harvest of the heart. Let it not pass with any of us as a barren and unproductive season, in which we neither sow nor reap the fruits of wisdom and peace.

The Hand.

Every limb and member of the body is made for some good purpose.

The eye is made to see with; the ear is made to hear with; the nose is made to smell with; the mouth is made to eat and speak with.

The feet are made to run and walk with; the hands are made to work with, to write with, and to do many other things.

But do you think children’s hands were ever made to strike their brothers, or sisters, or playmates? Were your little hands ever made to snatch away things from each other?

Who gave you hands? God gave them. Did he give you hands to steal with? Did God give you hands that you might throw stones at geese, or dogs, or hens, or cows, or any other innocent animals?

Did God give you hands to injure or wound any of the creatures he has made?

Take care of your little hands, then, my children! Take care that the hands God has given, do nothing that God disapproves.

Nuts to Crack.

THE WORD “FAST.”--This is as great a contradiction as we have in the language. The river is _fast_, because the ice is immoveable; and then the ice disappears _fast_ for the contrary reason--it is loose. A clock is called _fast_ when it goes quicker than time; but a man is told to stand _fast_, when he is desired to remain stationary. People _fast_ when they have nothing to eat, and eat _fast_ when opportunity offers.

* * * * *

MILITARY COURTESY.--Gen. Meadows, equally renowned for his wit and bravery, being on a reconnoitring party, in the Mysore country, a twenty-four pound shot struck the ground at some distance from the General, and was passing in such a direction as would have exposed him to danger had he continued on his route; quick as lightning he stopped his horse, and, pulling off his hat very gracefully, as the shot rolled on, good-humoredly said: “I beg you to proceed, sir; I never dispute precedence with any gentleman of your family.”

* * * * *

A DOCTOR, in Scotland, was employed by a poor man to attend his wife, who was dangerously ill. The doctor gave a hint, amounting to the suspicion that he would not be paid. “I have,” says the man, “five pounds; and if you kill, or cure her, you shall have it.” The woman died, under the hands of the doctor, and, after a reasonable time, he called for his five pounds. The man then said: “Did you kill my wife?--did you cure her?” “No.” “Then,” said the poor man, “you have no legal demand,” and turned upon his heel.

* * * * *

HOW TO SHAKE OFF TROUBLE.--Set about doing good to somebody: put on your hat, and go and visit the sick and poor--inquire into their wants, and minister to them; seek out the desolate and oppressed, and tell them of the consolations of religion. I have often tried this method, and have always found it the best medicine for a heavy heart.

* * * * *

A FATHER’S IMPULSE.--When Lord Erskine made his _debut_ at the bar, his agitation almost overpowered him, and he was just going to sit down: “At that moment,” said he, “I thought I felt my little children tugging at my gown, and the idea roused me to an exertion, of which I did not think myself capable.”

* * * * *

THE SUBLIME.--Over the stall of a public writer, in Rue de Bac, at Paris, is the following inscription: “M. Renard, public writer and compiler--translates the tongues, explains the language of flowers, and sells fried potatoes.”

* * * * *

FEELING FOR ANOTHER.--A Quaker, once hearing a person tell how much he felt for a friend who needed his assistance, dryly observed: “Friend, hast thou ever felt in thy pocket for him?”

* * * * *

“What are you writing such a thundering big hand for, Patrick?” “Why, do you see, my grandmother is deaf, and I am writing a loud lether to her.”

* * * * *

A KNOTTY CASE.--Not many years ago, a man appeared in court, whether as plaintiff, defendant, or witness, tradition does not inform us. Be this as it may, the following dialogue ensued:--Court--“What is your name, sir?” “My name is Knott Martin, your honor.” “Well, what is it?” “It is Knott Martin.” “Not Martin, again! We do not ask you what your name is _not_, but what it _is_. No contempt of court, sir.” “If your honor will give me leave, I will spell my name.” “Well, spell it.” “K-n-o-tt, Knott, M-a-r, Mar, t-i-n, tin--Knott Martin.” “O, well, Mr. Martin, we see through it now; but it is one of the most _knotty_ cases we have had before us for some time.”

* * * * *

GOOD.--It was a judicious resolution of a father, as well as a most pleasing compliment to his wife, when, on being asked by a friend what he intended to do with his daughters, he replied: “I intend to apprentice them to their mother, that they may become like her--good wives, mothers, heads of families, and useful members of society.”

* * * * *

A LEARNED CHARACTER.--“Give me ‘Venice Preserved,’” said a gentleman, last week, on going to a celebrated bookseller’s at the West-end. “We don’t sell preserves,” said an apprentice, newly-imported from the country; “but you will get them next door, at Mr. Brown’s, the confectioner.”

* * * * *

TEN TO ONE.--Strict attention to office hours is a duty incumbent upon every public officer. We heard of a case of an American consul, in a foreign country, who was not remarkable for his attention to duty. A gentleman, calling one day, found his office shut, and a label sticking upon the door, with these words: “In from ten to one.” Having called again several times within those hours, without finding him, he wrote at the bottom of the label--“Ten to one he’s not in.”

To the Black-ey’d and Blue-ey’d
Friends of Robert Merry.

It is now about a twelvemonth since our acquaintance commenced; and I hope the feeling is such between us, that there is a mutual desire to continue it. I know that the young, the happy, and the gay-hearted, are apt to think that we old fellows are sour and sad--disposed to look with an evil eye upon childhood and its sports; and more ready to preach than practise charity.

I will not pretend to deny that, now and then, a person gets cross and crabbed as he grows old, and like cider too long kept, turns to vinegar: but this is not my case, or, if it be, my ill-humor never displays itself toward the young. They are to me the buds and blossoms of life, and their presence ever brings the welcome feelings that belong to sunshine and summer.

Old age has been often compared to winter--the close of the year; the season of desolation; the period of storms and tempests; the funeral-time of the vegetable world; the time when the leaves, the fruits, and the flowers are laid in their tomb, and covered over with a winding-sheet of snow. This is a sad picture at first view; and I believe many a child is led to avoid old people from the habit of regarding them in this light--from the idea that they are shrivelled, frost-bitten, bitter, and disagreeable.

Now, I will not deny that there is some resemblance between winter and old age: an old man has not the warm blood of youth; his pulses are, perhaps, like the river, chilled and obstructed by ice; his temper is sometimes capricious and gusty, like the winds of December; and his head, bald, or covered with a few silvery hairs, is like the oak, stripped of its covering, and having its boughs powdered with snow.

All this may be true enough; but it is not good reason why the old should be deserted by the young. I remember very well, that, when I was a boy, there was a fine old walnut-tree, upon a hillside, not far from where I lived. Now, I never thought or cared about this tree, till the time when winter approached. Then, when the leaves were scattered, the nuts were all ripe, then it was that the tree became an object of interest to me. Then it was that I loved to visit it; to climb its limbs and give it a shake, and hear the fruit rattle down like hail. Never, in all my boyhood days, did I meet with anything more delightful than this!

And let me tell you, my black-ey’d and blue-ey’d friends, that this old walnut-tree was like many an old person you may meet with. You will remark that, in this case, it was when winter had come, or was near at hand, that the fruit was ripe, and ready for those who would climb up for it and gather it. And let me tell you, that old people, like this tree, have many a good nut to crack, many a good story to tell, to those who will climb up in the lap and ask for it.

This is my view of the matter; and I hope that young people, instead of running away from me, as a crusty, crabbed, one-legged old chap, will treat me as I did the old walnut-tree--give it a shake, and see if the nuts don’t rattle down!

I am not fond of making great promises; but, as I am anxious to have my readers, who have set out on a journey with me, still keep me company--at least for one year more--I am ready to engage to do my best to please them. I shall, if I live, tell the rest of my own story, and bring the history of Brusque to a close. The tale of the Sable-Hunters, the travels of Thomas Trotter, the stories of the Indians, will be continued and completed; and a variety of other things are in store.

I can promise one thing more--and that is, some tales from the pen of Peter Parley. That pleasant, kind-hearted old man is no more; but I knew him better than anybody else, and all his papers are in my hands. Among them are several tales, and I intend to publish them in my magazine. My young readers, perhaps, do not know how shabbily poor old Peter was treated. The fact was, that several people in this country, as well as in others, wrote stories, and put his name to them; thus pretending that they were actually his! Some of these were very silly, and some were very improper. This cut Peter to the heart, and it served greatly to shorten his days. I am sorry that, even now, people are palming off trumpery works of their own as Peter Parley’s.

But the tales that I propose to give, are genuine; there is no mistake. They are by the same hand that wrote the tales about Europe, Asia, Africa, and America; and I hope they may be as acceptable as those were.

I return a thousand thanks to my many young friends, who have written me letters, whether of criticism, advice, or commendation. I am glad to know that so many of them like Bill Keeler: let them be assured his whole story will come out in due time. I shall be very glad to get the bear story, which L. S., of Vermont, offers to tell. The Indiana legend of the Wolf and the Wild-cat, is received, and will appear soon. Jane R---- will accept my thanks for--she knows what! If she were not so many hundred miles off, I should ask her to let me see whether she is a blue-eyed or black-eyed friend. The basket of chestnuts were duly received from Alice D----, and were very welcome. Ralph H---- will see that I have done as he requested; I have given a portrait of the fine gray squirrel he sent me, in this number. He is well, and as lively as ever.

ROBERT MERRY.

WINTER--A SONG.

THE WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

“Tell me what does winter mean!”
’Tis a drea-ry change of scene--
When the meadow yields its bloom,
And the blo-soms seek their tomb.
Winter is the time of storms,
When the cloud in angry forms,
O’er the land in terror sweeps,
And the sighing forest weeps.

’Tis the funeral time of flowers,
Withered in their lovely bowers;
While the zephyr sings in grief,
O’er each shrivelled stem and leaf.
’Tis the dreary time of snow,
Falling chill on all below,
As a winding-sheet it weaves
O’er the graves of myriad leaves.

Winter is a time of tears,
For the poor, in youth or years,--
Where the storm drives keenly in,
And the blanket’s brief and thin.
Winter is the time of wreck,
When the billow cleaves the deck,
And the mariners go down
Where the battling surges frown.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged unless indicated below. Obsolete and alternative spellings were left unchanged. Misspelled words were not corrected.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like this_. One Footnote was moved to the end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added. Duplicate letters at line endings or page breaks were removed. Quotation marks were adjusted to common usage. Page numbers in the Table of Contents were corrected to match book pages.