While Mr. Adams was wishing that some of our great men had such wives as Aspasia, he had such a wife, was himself such a man, and owed half his greatness to his Aspasia.  The exalted patriotism and cheerful piety infused into the letters she addressed to him during the long night of political uncertainty that hung over the country, strengthened his courage, fired his nobler feelings, nerved his higher purposes, and, doubtless, greatly contributed to make him one of the chief pillars of the young republic.  All honor to a brave wife, and not less heroic mother.  If her husband and son kept the ship of state from the rocks, the light which guided them was largely from her.

      Heroic wife and mother,
      Whose days were toil and grace,
    Thy glory gleams for many another,
      And shines in many a face.

      The heart, as of a nation,
      Throbs with thy tender love;
    And all our drama of salvation
      Thou watchest from above.

      Our days, which yet are evil,
      And only free in part,
    Have need of things with Heaven co-eval,
      Of Faith’s unbounded heart.

      God grant the times approaching
      Be full of glad events,
    No unheroic aims reproaching
      Our line of Presidents.

* * * * *

V.

TWO NEIGHBOURS.

WHAT THEY GOT OUT OF LIFE.

It was just two o’clock of one of the warmest of the July afternoons.  Mrs. Hill had her dinner all over, had put on her clean cap and apron, and was sitting on the north porch, making an unbleached cotton shirt for Mr. Peter Hill, who always wore unbleached shirts at harvest-time.  Mrs. Hill was a thrifty housewife.  She had pursued this economical avocation for some little time, interrupting herself only at times to “shu!” away the flocks of half-grown chickens that came noisily about the door for the crumbs from the table-cloth, when the sudden shutting down of a great blue cotton umbrella caused her to drop her work, and exclaim: 

“Well, now, Mrs. Troost! who would have thought you ever would come to see me!”

“Why, I have thought a great many times I would come,” said the visitor, stamping her little feet—­for she was a little woman—­briskly on the blue flag-stones, and then dusting them nicely with her white cambric handkerchief, before venturing on the snowy floor of Mrs. Hill.  And, shaking hands, she added, “It has been a good while, for I remember when I was here last I had my Jane with me—­quite a baby then, if you mind—­and she is three years old now.”

“Is it possible?” said Mrs. Hill, untying the bonnet-strings of her neighbor, who sighed as she continued, “Yes, she was three along in February;” and she sighed again, more heavily than before, though there was no earthly reason that I know of why she should sigh, unless, perhaps, the flight of time, thus brought to mind, suggested the transitory nature of human things.