“’One knows not how, beneath the dark, deep crust,
The clear flood there has come: 
One knows not why, amid eternal dust,
Slumbers that sea of foam.’

“Plain enough,” he cried, dodging the apples; “the attraction of gravitation did the business for it.

“’Dark-buried, sepulchred, entombed and deep,
Away from mortal ken,
It lies, till, summoned from its silent sleep,
It leaps to light again.’

“Very good,” he said, “and now here comes the application, the moral of the poem.

“’So shall we find no intellect so dull,
No soul so cold to move,
No heart of self or sinfulness so full,
But still hath power to love.’

“Of course,” he said; “he knows how it is himself; the poet fills the bill exactly.

’It lives immortal, universal all,
The tenant of each breast;
Locked in the silence of unbroken thrall,
And deep and pulseless rest;
Till, at a touch, with burst of power and pride,
Its swollen torrents roll,
Dash all the trappings of the mind aside,
And ride above the soul.’

“Hurrah!” he cried, “that’s splendid!  But here’s some more:  ’To Estella.’”

But I could stand no more, and so began to climb the tree.  It was an apple-tree, and not a very big one at that, and Max was forced to retreat out upon a limb, and then drop to the ground.  But the young ladies were too quick for him; they pounced upon him as he fell; and very soon my precious verses were hidden in Estella’s bosom, whence, in a burst of confidence and pride, they had been taken to exhibit to Christina.

“Yes,” said Estella, “it was nothing but mean jealousy, because he could not write such beautiful poetry to Christina.”  “Exactly,” said Christina, “and I think I will refuse to marry him until he produces some verses equally fine.”

“Before I would write such poetry as that,” said Max, “I would go and hang myself.”

“No man ought to be allowed to marry,” said Estella, “until he has written a poem.”

“If you drive Max to that,” I said, “other people will hang themselves rather than hear his verses.”

And thus, with laugh and jest and badinage, the glorious hours passed away.

It was growing late; but we could not go until we had seen the cows milked, for that was a great event in the household; and “Bossy” especially was a wonderful cow.  Never before in the world had there been such a cow as “Bossy.”  The children had tied some ribbons to her horns, and little Ole was astride of her broad back, his chubby legs pointing directly to the horizon, and the rest of the juveniles danced around her; while the gentle and patient animal stood chewing her cud, with a profound look upon her peaceful face, much like that of a chief-justice considering “the rule in Shelley’s case,” or some other equally solemn and momentous subject.