Apples of knowledge, I spoze, but different from Eve’s—­fur different; these wuz peaceful Knowledge, Literature, Art, and all beautiful and useful industries.

A smaller panel describes Music and Dancin’ in a charmin’ way.

On the other side of the central panel are several maidens pursuin’ a flyin’ figger.

Mebby it wuz the Ideal.  If it wuz, I wuz glad to see them young females a-follerin’ it up so clost.  But girls will be more apt to catch her, when they leave off cossets, and long trains, and high-heeled shoes (metafor).  But these seemed to be a-doin’ the best they could, anyway.

A border in rich colors went all round the picture, and in the corners wuz medallions all full of sweet babies—­perfect cherubs of loveliness.

In some things the picture mebby could have been bettered a little—­mebby the ladder wuzn’t quite stiddy enough—­mebby I should ruther have not clumb up it.  But the colorin’ of the picture is superb.  So rich and gorgus that it put me in mind of our own Jonesville woods in September, when you look off into the maple forests, and your eyes would fairly be dazzled with the blaze of the colors, if they wuzn’t so soft and rich, and blended into each other so perfect.

Yes, Miss Cassette done real well, and so did Mrs. MacMonnies, too.

And all round this room hung pictures that filled me with delight, and the proudest kind of pride, to think my own sect had done ’em all—­had branched out into such noble and beautiful branchin’s, for the statutes wuz jest as impressive as the pictures.  There wuz one statute in the centre of the main corridor that I liked especially.

It wuz Maud Muller.  As I looked on Maud, I thought I could say with the Judge, when he first had a idee of payin’ attention to her—­

“A sweeter face I ne’er have seen.”  And I thought, too, I could read in Maud’s face a sort of a sad look, as if the shadder Pride, and Fate, held above her, wuz sort o’ shadin’ her now.  Miss Blanche Nevins done first rate, and I’d loved to told her so.

And then there wuz a statute of Elaine that rousted up about every emotion I had by me.

There she wuz, “Elaine the fair,” the lovable, the lily maid of Astolot.

I always thought a sight of her, and I’ve shed many a tear over her ontimely lot.  I knew she thought more of Mr. Lancelot than she’d ort to, specially he bein’ in love with a married woman at the same time.

Her face looked noble, and yet sweet, riz up jest as it must have been when she argued with her pa about the man she loved.

“Never yet was noble man, but made ignoble talk;
  He makes no friends who never made a foe.”

And down under the majesty of her mean wuz the tenderness and pathos of her own little song; for, as Alfred Tennyson said, and said well, “Sweetly could she make, and sing.”

“Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain;
 And sweet is Death, who puts an end to pain. 
 I know not which is sweeter—­no, not I.”