Bitter-Sweet | Page 8

promise good behavior, he shall be

My candle-bearer, basket-bearer, and--
But no! The pitcher I will bear
myself.
I'll never trust a pitcher to a man
Under this house,
and--seventy years of age.
[_The children rush out of the room
with a
shout, which wakes the
baby_.]
That noisy little youngster on the floor
Slept through theology but
wakes with mirth--
Precocious little creature! He must go
Up to his
chamber. Come, Grace, take him off--
Basket and all. Mary will lend
a hand,
And keep you company until he sleeps.
[GRACE and_ MARY remove the cradle to the chamber,
and_ DAVID and_ RUTH retire to the cellar.]
John.
[Rising and yawning]
Isn't she the strangest girl you ever saw?

Prudence.
Queer, rather, I should say. Grace, now, is strange.
I think she treats
her husband shamefully.
I can't imagine what possesses her,
Thus to
toss taunts at him with every word.
If in his doctrines there be truth
enough,
He'll be a saint.
Patience.
If he live long enough.
John.
Well, now I tell you, such wild men as he,--
Men who have crazy
crotchets in their heads,--
Can't make a woman happy. Don't you see?

He isn't settled. He has wandered off
From the old landmarks, and
has lost himself
I may judge wrongly; but if truth were told
There'd
be excuse for Grace, I warrant ye.
Grace is a right good girl, or was,
before
She married David.
Patience.
Everybody says
He makes provision for his family,
Like a good
husband.
Peter.
We can hardly tell.
When men get loose in their theology
The
screws are started up in everything.
Of course, I don't apologize for
Grace.
I think she might have done more prudently
Than introduce
her troubles here to-night,
But, after all, we do not know the cause

That stirs her fretfulness.
Well, let it go!
What does the evening's talk amount to? Who
Is
wiser for the wisdom of the hour?
The good old paths are good
enough for me.
The fathers walked to heaven in them, and we,
By

following mekly where they trod, may reach
The home they found.
There will be mysteries;
Let those who like, bother their heads with
them.
If Ruth and David seek to fathom all,
I wish them patience in
their bootless quest.
For one, I'm glad the misty talk is done,
And
we, alone.
Patience.
And I.
John.
I, too.
Prudence.
And I.
FIRST EPISODE.
LOCALITY--The cellar stair and the cellar.
PRESENT--DAVID
and RUTH.
THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY NATURE.
Ruth.
Look where you step, or you'll stumble!
Care for your coat, or you'll
crock it!
Down with your crown, man! Be humble!
Put your head
into your pocket,
Else something or other will knock it.
Don't hit
that jar of cucumbers
Standing an the broad-stair!
They have not
waked from their slumbers
Since they stood there.
David.
Yet they have lived in a constant jar!
What remarkable sleepers they
are!

Ruth.
Turn to the left--shun the wall--
One step more--that is all!
Now we
are safe on the ground,
I will show you around.
Sixteen barrels of cider
Ripening all in a row!
Open the
vent-channels wider!
See the froth, drifted like snow.
Blown by the
tempest below!
Those delectable juices
Flowed through the sinuous
sluices
Of sweet springs under the orchard;
Climbed into fountains
that chained them;
Dripped into cups that retained them,
And
swelled till they dropped, and we gained them.
Then they were
gathered and tortured
By passage from hopper to vat,
And
fell-every apple crushed flat.
Ah! how the bees gathered round them,

And how delicious they found them!
Oat-straw, as fragrant as
clover,
Was platted, and smoothly turned over,
Weaving a neatly
ribbed basket;
And, as they built up the casket,
In went the pulp by
the scoop-full,
Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full,--
Filling the
half of a puncheon
While the men swallowed their luncheon.
Pure
grew the stream with the stress
Of the lever and screw,
Till the last
drops from the press
Were as bright as the dew.
There were these
juices spilled;
There were these barrels filled;
Sixteen barrels of
cider--
Ripening all in a row!
Open the vent-channels wider!
See
the froth, drifted like snow,
Blown by the tempest below!
David.
Hearts, like apples, are hard and sour,
Till crushed by Pain's resistless
power;

And yield their juices rich and bland
To none but Sorrow's
heavy hand.
The purest streams of human love
Flow naturally never,

But gush by pressure from above
With God's hand on the lever.

The first are turbidest and meanest;
The last are sweetest and
serenest.
Ruth.

Sermon quite short for the text!
What shall we hit upon next?
Lift
up the lid of that cask;
See if the brine be abundant;
Easy for me
were the task
To make it redundant
With tears for my beautiful
Zephyr--
Pet of the pasture and stall--
Whitest and comeliest heifer,

Gentlest of all!
Oh, it seemed cruel to slay her!
But they insulted
my prayer
For her careless and innocent life,
And the creature was
brought to the knife
With gratitude in her eye;
For they