Queechy Volume Ii Part 31

"You have seen it before?"

"Why?" Fleda said, with a look up at him, at once a little startled and a little curious ? "what makes you say so?"

"Because ? pardon me ? you did not read it."

"Oh," said Fleda, laughing, but colouring at the same time very frankly, "I can tell how I like some things without reading them very carefully."

Mr. Carleton looked at her, and then took the magazine again.

"What have you there, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence.

"A piece of English, on which I was asking this lady's opinion, Miss Evelyn."

"Now, Mr. Carleton," exclaimed Constance, jumping up ? "I am going to ask you to decide a quarrel between Fleda and me about a point of English ?"

"Hush, Constance!" said her mother ? "I want to speak to Mr.

Carleton. Mr. Carleton, how do you like it?"

"Like what, Mamma?" said Florence.

"A piece I gave Mr. Carleton to read. Mr. Carleton, tell me how you like it, Sir."

"But what is it, Mamma!"

"A piece of poetry in an old _Excelsior_ ? 'The Spirit of the Fireside.' Mr. Carleton, wont you read it aloud, and let us all hear? but tell me, first, what you think of it."

"It has pleased me particularly, Mrs. Evelyn."

"Mr. Stackpole says he does not understand it, Sir."

"Fanciful," said Mr. Stackpole; "it's a little fanciful ? and I can't quite make out what the fancy is."

"It has been the misfortune of many good things before, not to be prized, Mr. Stackpole," said the lady, funnily.

"True, Ma'am," said that gentleman, rubbing his chin, "and the converse is also true, unfortunately, and with a much wider application."

"There is a peculiarity of mental development or training,"

said Mr. Carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds, because of their wanting the corresponding key of nature or experience. Some literature has a hidden free-masonry of its own."

"Very hidden, indeed!" said Mr. Stackpole; "the cloud is so thick that I can't see the electricity."

"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, laughing, "I take that remark as a compliment, Sir; I have always appreciated that writer's pieces; I enjoy them very much."

"Well, wont you, please, read it, Mr. Carleton?" said Florence, "and let us know what we are talking about."

Mr. Carleton obeyed, standing where he was, by the centre- table.

"By the old hearthstone a Spirit dwells, The child of bygone years ?

He lieth hid the stones amid, And liveth on smiles and tears.

"But when the night is drawing on, And the fire burns clear and bright, He cometh out and walketh about In the pleasant grave twilight.

"He goeth round on tiptoe soft, And scanneth close each face; If one in the room be sunk in gloom, By him he taketh his place.

"And then with fingers cool and soft (Their touch who does not know?) With water brought from the well of thought, That was dug long years ago,

"He layeth his hand on the weary eyes ?

They are closed and quiet now; ?

And he wipeth away the dust of the day Which had settled on the brow.

"And gently then he walketh away And sits in the corner chair; And the closed eyes swim ? it seemeth to him The form that once sat there.

"And whisper'd words of comfort and love Fall sweet on the ear of sorrow; ?

'Why weepest thou? ? thou art troubled now, But there cometh a bright to-morrow.

" 'We, too, have pa.s.s'd over life's wild stream In a frail and shatter'd boat, But the pilot was sure ? and we sail'd secure When we seem'd but scarce afloat.

" 'Though toss'd by the rage of waves and wind, The bark held together still, One arm was strong ? it bore us along, And has saved from every ill.'

"The Spirit returns to his hiding-place, But his words have been like balm.

The big tears start, but the fluttering heart Is sooth'd, and soften'd, and calm."

"I remember that," said Florence; "it is beautiful."

"Who's the writer?" said Mr. Stackpole.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Evelyn, "it is signed 'Hugh'. There have been a good many of his pieces in the _Excelsior_, for a year past, and all of them pretty."

"Hugh!" exclaimed Edith, springing forward, "that's the one that wrote the Chestnuts! Fleda, wont you read Mr. Carleton the Chestnuts?"

"Why, no, Edith; I think not."

"Ah, do! I like it so much, and I want him to hear it; and you know Mamma says they're all pretty. Wont you?"

"My dear Edith, you have heard it once already to-day"

"But I want you to read it for me again."