The poultry run in and out before him, an the season's chickens delight to wallow in th loosened dirt under the lee of the fence, stretch ing their yellow legs in the genial sun. Grand mother's bed of marigolds awaits the clipping of her shears, and looks like a shoal of brigh fish, dyed in the yellow stream of some Pacto lus. As for the rows of sturdy-looking winte cabbages, they may stand out awhile through the fall frosts, and even get powdered with the first light snows of November; and the growing turkey-poults may peck at the loose outside leaves on their way to roost in the apple-trees. One cannot think of the Spring house-clean ing, without a revived reminiscence of the early garden-work, too. The boys are raking the rubbish from the grass and the beds, and setting fire to it in the piles they have heaped up around; into which the old shoes of the past year are thrown as burnt-offerings. The girls are at the posies, scratching away like so many hens in the high tide of mischief. The dog has his nose in every nook, new or old, that is to be found. The windows are all opened, to let in the genial sun. Bees drive across the yards, impatiently foraging for the first blossoms. The robins make the air vocal nests. their welcome calls, and are scouting the plantations for nice places to build The sprouted sprays of the old on the lawn are pencilled on the ground e sunshine, with the utmost minuteness. bout the premises there are the joyous s and sounds of Spring, bringing glad tis of the new life that has suddenly broken the world. — And this is the life of Home. Has the e world any thing to offer that is debased so little alloy? ut finest of all, and crown of all the home es, are the roses; those beautiful children e dews and sun; clambering in such wild ousness about the porch, and thrusting boquets of red-and-white in at the wins; cloudy masses of colors just fetched n Paradise, mingled as if in chance drifts, piled against the house like snows against walls in winter! The little parlor ded and low-is filled with the breath of r very hearts. Through the whole of June, dear old place is a sort of Dreamland. In most brilliant colorings of oriental talesthe dreamiest pictures of islands in the athern seas, nothing so satisfies the imaginan and the heart as the luxuriant rose-vines, bossed from root to crown with glories of b and blossoms; lavishing their sweet lives the happiness of those who dwell contente at home; and conjuring up for soul and se through the magic of color and perfume, id scenes that line the roadways of life w banks of ravishing fragrance and bowers beauty without end. The Rose is the Angel of the Garde and one can therefore readily comprehe what the poet Gray meant when he exclaim Happy they who can create a Rose!" Henry Wotton wrote of it, in his verses " ( his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia," "You Violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, As if the Spring were all your own, What are you when the ROSE is blown?" SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY. the almost silent delights of this one day out of the seven, those who persistently 1 in the cities know little or nothing. The whom the heat or the fashion drives forth still country neighborhoods for two or three s each summer, carry back with them but lf-notion of the Country Sunday as it is, it they are as fond of talking about it as if were as steady to meeting as the deacons aselves. It is a clear mistake to suppose one little foray into the country, every mer, is going to supply a requisite idea of nary country matters: a man may as I make his choice of a house by sample. That sort of country life which neighbors n the cities, whose sober warp is shot daily h the gay woof of town travel, is not the I am speaking of now; in the quiet rural rement where I write, I hear no roar of car eels or shrill whoop of the steam-whistle en in the distance. I fail to see glittering turn-outs on their way to church, to upset th sober heads of such as gather on the villag Green. The charm of it is, the country at time loses its real country character. TI Sunday morning air is as tranquil, and in sun mer as redolent, as the poets all say it was i Eden. You can hear mellow bells calling or to another from hill-top to hill-top, their echo tripping across the intervening meadows a lightly as tricksy Ariel. Men, women an children are starched up in their very cleane and best. An open wagon, stiffly set on th old-fashion" thorough-braces," comes as nea to a coupé, chariotee, or barouche as yo can ordinarily discover. Everybody is plai homely, and remarkably sober. Everybod travels the lengthening roads to meeting be cause, primarily, it is a duty, and not merely sentiment, or the fashion. Underneath a fixe rigidity their hard, dry humor is effectually cov ered up; and only at the noon intermission o an hour, behind the meeting-house, perhaps or just around the next corner, or tucked awa in the half-shadows of the horse-sheds, d the men dare to relax their muscles from th set Sunday grimness, and give way to an out break of humor at best almost as sickly as the sun seen through a bit of smoked glass. |