While gravely he bade her be sure and see That she solved her examples after tea. DORRIS' SPINNING. (_An Old Time Ballad_.) By Margaret J. Preston. |SHE sat in the upper chamber --'Twas a summer of Long Ago-- And looked through the gable window At the river that ran below, And over the quiet pastures, And up at the wide blue sky, And envied the jay his freedom As he lazily flitted by. Yet patiently at her spinning, In a halo of happy light, Se wrought, though a shimmer rippled The heads of the wheat in sight-- Though the garden was spilling over Its cups on the fragrant air, And the hollyhocks at the doorway Had never looked half so fair. She saw, as her wheel kept whirling, The leisure of Nature too-- The beautiful holiday weather Left nothing for her to do: The cattle were idly grazing, And even the frisky sheep, Away in the distant meadows, Lay under the shade asleep. So sitting, she heard sweet laughter, And a bevy of maidens fair, With babble of merry voices, Came climbing the chamber stair; "O Dorns! how can you bear it, To drone at your spinning here? Why, girl! it's the heart of summer, The goldenest time of year. [Illustration: 0063] "Put out of your hand the distaff, This wearisome whirl relax-- There are things that are gayer, Dorris, Than sitting and spinning flax: Come with us away to the forest; When it rains is the time to ply Such tiresome tasks--and to-day is The fifteenth day of July!" With a face that was softly saddened, Sweet Dorris looked up and said, As she ravelled a bit of tangle, And twisted again her thread, "Nay, nay, I must do my spinning; It wouldn't be kind or right That the loom should be kept a-waiting; My hanks must be done to-night. So the frolicsome maidens left her, With something of mild surprise That Dorris should choose a duty, With pleasure before her eyes; Not dreaming that when her mother Her "dozens" should count up-stairs, And kiss her and say, "My darling!" Her day would be glad as theirs. So she minded her wheel, and blithely She sang as she twirled it round, And cunningly from her fingers The delicate fibre wound; And on through the sunny hours, That neither were sad nor long, She toiled in her sweet obedience, And lightened her toil with song. "Aye, surely, the day is lovely! It tugs at my very heart To look at its drifting beauty, Nor share in its joy my part r I may not go forth to meet it,