Mr. Frier, and partly from her own exertions, had managed to 'pick up something,' that served to make quite a comfortable meal. Jerry ate his dinner in silence, but his wife thought he manifested more tenderness and less selfishness, than she had known him to exhibit for years; for instead of appropriating the most and the best of the food to himself, he several times placed fair proportions of it upon the plates of his wife and each of the children.
The next morning, before the sun had dried the dew from the grass, whoever passed the haying-field of Mr. Nat. Frier, might have beheld Jerry Guttridge busily at work, shaking out the wet hay to the sun; and for a month afterward, the passer-by might have seen him, every day, early and late, in that and the adjoining fields, a perfect pattern of industry.
A change soon became perceptible in the condition and circumstances of his family. His house began to wear more of an air of comfort, outside and in. His wife improved in health and spirits, and little Bobby became a fat, hearty boy, and grew like a pumpkin. And years afterward, Mrs. Guttridge was heard to say, that, 'somehow, ever since that 'ere trial, Mr. Guttridge's natur' seemed to be entirely changed!'
Now 's the time when Winter 's goingFrom the bowers he blighted long;Now 's the time when Spring is glowing,Breathing into bloom and song;When green buds are hourly springing,In soft bed and sunny vale;When the merry birds are singing,Fearless, round the cottage pale;And, a long-expected comer,From the gardens of the south,Swims in sight the blushing Summer,Sweet in smiles, and warm in youth.Gladsome notes are floating by us,And from earth a murmur steals,Softly, which must still ally usTo the clod that breathes and feels.Life is round us in the breezes,In the ground a labor grows,And the humblest motion pleases,That from living fountain flows.Stagnant now no more, and frozen,Lo! the waters flash and run,And the lake unfettered glows inThe new glances of the sun.Stoop to earth the ear, and listen;Hark! the murmur from below;Lift the upward eyes—they glistenWith the rich and rosy glow.Wide and wondrous is the dwelling,Where the lovely builder works,And the murmur upward swelling,Tells us where her agent lurks.Prompt and ready at her summons,When the signal sounds of spring,Lo! arise her peers and commons,Fleet of foot and wild of wing.In the mansions long forsaken,Free to spin, to build, and moil;Now they gather, glad to waken,Though they waken still to toil.From their labor grows their treasure,Silken robes and honied spring;And their very toil is pleasure,Since they fly, and flying sing.Yet, throughout her vast dominions,What unequal forms appear!Some on gold and purple pinions,Seem the princes of the air.Sweets from others' toils assessing,Stooping only to partakeThe rich juice and luscious blessing,Which they never stoop to make.Like the lily near the fountain,Neither do they toil nor spin,Yet, in joy and splendor mounting,Life and happiness they win:Flying ever round the summit,Heedless of the tribes, that low,Ply the shovel, dip the plummet,Grope in earth, and groping, grow.'T were meet answer to repining,Did the lowly grub deplore;'These were made for soaring, shining,Shining, singing, as they soar.When thou wear'st a golden pinion,Bright like that which soars so free,Thou shalt have a like dominion,And the grub shall toil for thee.'
