I know the precious charge you hold;
    But now, when comes the budding year,
    I wish the rather you were here
  To see our leafy months unfold.

  To watch the coming choir of birds,
    And note the lengthening twilight hours,
    The miracles of buds and flowers,
  And tender shows too sweet for words.

  But you who hear the throstle sing,
    And greet the lark’s high ecstasies,
    May learn to care no more for these,
  And spurn each weaker voice and wing.

  I will not think it—­home is home;
    And much as other skies may do,
    Ours will not reach its sweetest blue,
  Nor May seem perfect, till you come.

March 1, 1871.

CHAPTER XVII.

Gabrielle and her Embroidery—­Life in Pennsylvania continued—­Sugar-making—­Horrible Incident—­A Woman devoured by Wolves—­A Domestic Picture—­Evening Readings—­The Library of Mr. Greeley’s Father—­Mr. Greeley’s Mother intellectually considered—­Her Education—­Mr. Greeley’s Eldest Sister—­She teaches School at the Age of Twelve.

July 25.

“It is some time, auntie,” said Gabrielle, from the sofa, “since you have told us any stories.  Now I wish that this evening, while I am working upon my pin-cushion, you would relate some more episodes of your Pennsylvania life;” and she opened her work box, and took out a little roll of canvas, upon which she was busy delineating in pale yellow wool a stiff little canary, with a surprising eye, and an impossible tail.

“I have forgotten what I have already related, dear,” replied mamma; “you must tell me where to take up my story.”

“You left off at the manufacture of black salts,” said Gabrielle, “and I want you to commence at that very point, and not forget anything that occurred.”

“Perhaps you would like to hear about sugar making,” said mamma; “that was one of father’s yearly enterprises, and great sport we young people thought it.”

“Oh, do tell us about it,” said Gabrielle, with sparkling eyes; “that will be delightful; almost as good as meeting a bear.”

“Although not so exciting, I fear,” said mamma, laughing; “I am sorry that I have no encounters with bears to meet your demands for thrilling adventures to-night; but if, as I suppose, you have never seen the process of sugar making, you will find an account of it quite interesting.”

“Father had upon his extensive acres hundreds of grand old forest maples, which, growing as they did, in patches in the wilderness, formed what were called in country parlance ‘sugar bushes,’ or, in the more elegant language of books, ‘sugar orchards.’  Early in the spring, when the sun stood high, and the snow began to melt, the maples would be ‘tapped,’ as the farmers say; sometimes by boring into them, and often by driving in a chisel; then a wooden spout would be inserted