As soon as possible, I reopened my house, and established myself there with the same little servant.  It took Jane about a month to get ready, and it took me some years to feel wholly my own happiness.

The old house is still standing; but after Mrs. Wood died, and Ellen was married, we moved into the village; for the railroad came very near us, cutting right through the path “across the field.”  I had the bodies of my father and mother removed to the new cemetery.

My wife has been to me a lifelong blessing, my heart’s joy and comfort.  They who have not tried it can never know how much love there is in a woman’s heart.  The pink still lingers on her cheek, and her blue eye has that same expression which so bewitched me in my younger days.  The spell has never been broken.  I am an old man and she is an old woman, and, though I don’t do it before folks, lest they call us two old fools, yet, when I come in and find her all alone, I am free to own that I do hug and kiss her, and always mean to.  If anybody is inclined to laugh, let him just come and see how beautiful she is.

Our sons are away now, and all our daughters are married but one.  I’m glad they haven’t taken her,—­she looks so much as her mother did when I first knew her.  Her name is Jane Wood Allen.  She goes in the village by the name of Jennie Allen; but I like Jane better,—­Jane Wood.

That is a true account of “How I won my wife.”

POMEGRANATE-FLOWERS.

  The street was narrow, close, and dark,
  And flanked with antique masonry,
  The shelving eaves left for an ark
  But one long strip of summer sky. 
  But one long line to bless the eye—­
  The thin white cloud lay not so high,
  Only some brown bird, skimming nigh,
  From wings whence all the dew was dry
  Shook down a dream of forest scents,
  Of odorous blooms and sweet contents,
  Upon the weary passers-by.

  Ah, few but haggard brows had part
  Below that street’s uneven crown,
  And there the murmurs of the mart
  Swarmed faint as hums of drowsy noon. 
  With voices chiming in quaint tune
  From sun-soaked hulls long wharves adown,
  The singing sailors rough and brown
  Won far melodious renown,
  Here, listening children ceasing play,
  And mothers sad their well-a-way,
  In this old breezy sea-board town.

  Ablaze on distant banks she knew,
  Spreading their bowls to catch the sun,
  Magnificent Dutch tulips grew
  With pompous color overrun. 
  By light and snow from heaven won
  Their misty web azaleas spun;
  Low lilies pale as any nun,
  Their pensile bells rang one by one;
  And spicing all the summer air
  Gold honeysuckles everywhere
  Their trumpets blew in unison.