But there are spirits of a yet more liberal culture, to whom no simplicity is barren.  There are not only stately pines, but fragile flowers, like the orchises, commonly described as too delicate for cultivation, which derive their nutriment from the crudest mass of peat.  These remind us, that, not only for strength, but for beauty, the poet must, from time to time, travel the logger’s path and the Indian’s trail, to drink at some new and more bracing fountain of the Muses, far in the recesses of the wilderness.

The kings of England formerly had their forests “to hold the king’s game,” for sport or food, sometimes destroying villages to create or extend them; and I think that they were impelled by a true instinct.  Why should not we, who have renounced the king’s authority, have our national preserves, where no villages need be destroyed, in which the bear and panther, and some even of the hunter race, may still exist, and not be “civilized off the face of the earth,”—­our forests, not to hold the king’s game merely, but to hold and preserve the king himself also, the lord of creation,—­not for idle sport or food, but for inspiration and our own true re-creation? or shall we, like villains, grub them all up, poaching on our own national domains?

MY CHILDREN.

  Have you seen Annie and Kitty,
    Two merry children of mine? 
  All that is winning and pretty
    Their little persons combine.

  Annie is kissing and clinging
    Dozens of times in a day,—­
  Chattering, laughing, and singing,
    Romping, and running away.

  Annie knows all of her neighbors. 
    Dainty and dirty alike,—­
  Learns all their talk, and, “be jabers,”
    Says she “adores little Mike!”

  Annie goes mad for a flower,
    Eager to pluck and destroy,—­
  Cuts paper dolls by the hour,
    Always her model—­a boy!

  Annie is full of her fancies,
    Tells most remarkable lies,
  (Innocent little romances,)
    Startling in one of her size.

  Three little prayers we have taught her,
    Graded from winter to spring;
  Oh, you should listen my daughter
    Saying them all in a string!

  Kitty—­ah, how my heart blesses
    Kitty, my lily, my rose! 
  Wary of all my caresses,
    Chary of all she bestows.

  Kitty loves quietest places,
    Whispers sweet sermons to chairs,
  And, with the gravest of faces,
    Teaches old Carlo his prayers.

  Matronly, motherly creature! 
    Oh, what a doll she has built—­
  Guiltless of figure or feature—­
    Out of her own little quilt!

  Nought must come near it to wake it;
    Noise must not give it alarm;
  And when she sleeps, she must take it
    Into her bed, on her arm.

  Kitty is shy of a caller,
    Uttering never a word;
  But when alone in the parlor,
    Talks to herself like a bird.