University of Virginia Library

Ho! for the flax-field, with its flower of blue and leaf freshly green,—
Ho! for the snowy fleece, which the quiet flock yield to their master,—
Woman's hand shall transmute both, into armor for those she loves,
Wrapping her household in comfort, and her own heart in calm content.
Hark! at her flaxen distaff cheerily singeth the matron,
Hymns, that perchance, were mingled with her own cradle melodies.
Back and forth, at the Great Wheel, treadeth the buxom damsel,
Best form of calisthenics, exercising well every muscle
Regularly and to good-purpose, filling the blue veins with richer blood.
Rapidly on the spindle, gather threads from the pendent roll,
Not by machinery anatomized, till stamina and staple fly away,
But with hand-cards concocted, and symmetrically formed,
Of wool, white or grey, or the refuse flax smoothed to a silky lustre,
It greeteth the fingers of the spinner.
In this Hygeian concert
Leader of the Orchestra, was the Great Wheel's tireless tenor,
Drowning the counter of the snapping reel, and the quill-wheels fitful symphony,
Whose whirring strings, yielded to children's hands, prepare spools for the shuttle.
At intervals, like a muffled drum, sounded the stroke of the loam,
Cumbrous, and filling a large space with its quantity of timber,
Obedient only to a vigorous arm, which in ruling it grew more vigorous.
From its massy beam were unrolled, fabrics varied and substantial,
Linen for couch and table, and the lighter garniture of summer,
Frocks of a flaxen color for the laborer, or striped with blue for the younglings;
Stout garments in which man bides the buffet of wintry elements.
From the rind of the stately butternut, drew they a brown complexion,
Or the cerulean borrowed from the tint of the southern indigo.
Thus rustic Industry girded itself, amid household music,
As History of old, set her fabulous legends to the harp.
Ears trained to the operas of Italy, would find discordance to be mocked at,
But the patriot heard the ring of gold in the coffers of his country,
Not sent forth to bankruptcy, for the flowery silks of France;
While the listening christian caught the strong harmonies of a peaceful Land,
Giving praise to Jehovah.
Lo! at the winter evening
In these uncarpeted dwellings, what a world of comfort!
Large hickory logs send a dancing flame up the ample chimney,
Tinging with ruddy gleam, every face around the broad hearth-stone.
King and patriarch, in the midst, sitteth the true-hearted farmer.
At his side, the wife with her needle, still quietly regardeth the children.
Sheltered in her corner-nook, in the arm-chair, the post of honor,
Calm with the beauty of age, is the venerable grandmother.
Clustering around her, watching the stocking that she knits, are the little ones,
Loving the stories that she tells of the days when she was a maiden,
Stories ever mix'd with lessons of a reverent piety.
Manna do they thus gather to feed on, when their hair is hoary.
Stretch'd before the fire, is the weary, rough-coated house-dog,
Winking his eyes, full of sleep, at the baby, seated on his shoulder,
Proudly watching his master's darling, and the pet of the family,
As hither and thither on its small feet it toddles unsteadily.

On the straight-back'd oaken settle, congregate the older children.
Work have they, or books, and sometimes the weekly newspaper,
Grey, on coarse, crumpled paper, and borrowed from house to house,
Small-sized, yet precious, and read through from beginning to end,
Bright, young heads circling close, peering together over its columns.
Now and then, furtive glances reconnoitre the ingle-side,
Where before a bed of coals, rows of red apples are roasting,
Spitting out their life-juices spitefully, in unwilling martyrdom.
Finished, and drawn back, the happy group wait a brief interval
Thinking some neighbor might chance to come in and bid them good even,
Heightening their simple refection, for whose sake would be joyously added
The mug of sparkling cider passed temperately from lip to lip,
Sufficient and accepted offering of ancient, true-hearted hospitality.
Thus in colonial times dwelt they together as brethren,
Taking part in each others' concerns with an undissembled sympathy.

But when the tall old clock told out boldly three times three,
Thrice the number of the graces, thrice the number of the fates,
The full number of the Muses, the hour dedicated to Morpheus,
At that curfew, departed the guest, and all work being suspended,
Laid aside was the grandmother's knitting-bag, for in its cradle
Rock'd now and then by her foot, already slumbered the baby.
Then, ere the fading brands were covered with protecting ashes,
Rose the prayer of the Sire, amid his treasured and trusted ones,
Rose his thanks for past blessings, his petitions for the future,
His committal of all care to Him who careth for his creatures,
Overlooking nothing that His bountiful Hand hath created.

Orderly were the households of the farmer, not given to idle merriment,
Honoring the presence of parents, as of tutelary spirits.
To be obedient and useful were the first lessons of the young children,
Well learned and bringing happiness, that ruled on sure foundations,
Respect for authority, being the initial of God's holy fear.
Modern times might denounce such a system as tyrannical,
Asking the blandishments of indulgence, and a broader liberty;
Leaving in perplexing doubt, the mind of the infant stranger
Whether to rule or to be ruled he came hither on his untried journey,
Rearing him in headstrong ignorance, revolting at discipline,
Heady, high-minded, and prone to speak evil of dignities.

Welcome was Winter, to the agriculturist of olden times,
Then, while fruitful Earth, with whom he was in league, held her sabbath,
Knowledge entered into his soul. At the lengthened evening,
Read he in an audible voice to his listening family
Grave books of History, or elaborate Theology,
Taxing thought and memory, but not setting fancy on tiptoe
Teaching reverence for wise men, and for God, the Giver of Wisdom.
Not then had she era arrived, when of making books there is no end.
Painfully the laboring press, brought forth like the kingly whale
One cub at a time, guiding it carefully over the billows,
Watching with pride and pleasure, its own wonderful offspring.
A large, fair volume, was in those days, as molten gold,
Touched only with clean hands, and by testators willed to their heirs.