Then take our tokens all From great and small And close that noblest treasure beat That in your heart doth sleep. Mind what the spirit saith And plight therein thy faith, My very dear Elizabeth, Nor let the enemy wrest The heavenly harvest from that field, Nor tares permit to sow, Nor hate, nor woe In the pure soil God’s grace itself would sow;— But bloom and open all the day And be a flower that none shall pluck away, A rose of Fruitland’s quiet dell, A child intent on doing well Devout secluded from all sin Fragrance without and fair within A plant matured in God’s device An Amaranth in Paradise. * * * * * Monday, 17 July, 1843. This morning, not feeling well, I did not join the singing class, but kept my bed till after breakfast. We had no lessons to-day and I sewed. I believe I will write a story called The May Morning. A FABLE _The May Morning_ Early one morning in May a father conducted his son Theodore into the garden of a rich man which the boy had never yet seen. The garden was situated at a distance from the city, and it was adorned with all sorts of shrubs and plants, beds of flowers and fruit trees, shady alleys and pleasant groves. Through the middle of the garden wandered a pellucid stream which fell from a rock and formed a large pool at its foot. In the cool dell the water turned a mill. In the most beautiful spot in the garden were seats entwined with roses and verdant bowers. Theodore could not satiate his eyes with the charms of the place. He walked beside his father mostly in silent amaze, but sometimes he would exclaim: “O Father, how lovely and beautiful is this garden!” When they had seen many things and were weary with their walk the father conducted the boy through the plantations to the fall of a stream and they sat down on the brow of a hill. Here they listened to the roaring of the water which tumbled foaming from the ledge of the rocks, and in the surrounding thickets were perched nightingales which mingled their strains with the hoarse murmur of the fall. And Theodore thought he never yet had heard nightingales sing so delightfully. While they thus sat and listened they heard the voice of a man and the voices of children. They were the children of the miller, a boy and a girl, and they were leading their old blind grandfather between them, and telling him about the beautiful shrubs and flowers by the wayside, and amusing the old man by their lively and simple prattle.