The shrill reveille of the barn-yard trumpeter early aroused Nature from her slumbers, and fearing she had overslept herself from the fatigues of yesterday, she threw off her dark counterpane and donned in haste her gray kirtle. The bull-frog had ceased tuning his eternal bass-viol, and with the beetle, the whippowil, the owl, and other roysterers of the night, had gone to bed. All was still, excepting that here and there might be heard the soft twitter of some warbler who was to take part in the grand chorus of the morning, as nestled among the branches he tuned his little pipe. Her wearied handmaidens were yet sleeping after their night’s toil; and their indulgent mistress left them awhile longer to their repose, for never had they better performed her bidding. The eastern casements were new hung in draperies of rose-color and gold, and the morning-star was peeping in, to see that all was in order for his monarch’s arrival; while the moon still lingered near the western portal, to take one look at his joyous visage before her departure. The west-wind now woke, and sweeping fragrance from the new-born flowers, gently fanned the face of the careful matron as she cast a pleased eye over her fair domain. Her fountains were filled to the brim and gleamed in the early light; her fresh green turf was glittering with gems, and a diamond hung from every leaf of her foliage. But the paling of the morning-star now gave notice of the sun’s approach; and spying his steeds advancing over the ocean, and her broad mirrors reflecting his glance on their burnished surfaces, she gave the signal for the morning concert to strike up, and all radiant with smiles welcomed her lordly visitor. The moon meekly courtesied her adieu. Vi’let was early astir this morning. She went down stairs, her cap on one ear, very much out of humor at having the house to put to rights again, “arter working like a dog all yesterday from sunrise till midnight.” Routing up Scip and Peter, and setting Flora to put the breakfast-room in order, she then placed the coffee and chocolate on the fire, and the cakes into the Dutch-oven to bake—this, the reader will recollect, was before the era of cooking-stoves and ranges—after which she called out to Flora to know if Dinah had brought back the frying-pan. “No, Aunt Vi’let,” returned Flora, in a deprecating tone; “but you mustn’t blame me, for I told her you’d want it this morning to fry the flap-jacks.” “That’s always the way with that old witch, Nanny; if she gets any thing out of anybody, they’ve good luck to get it again—Pete’, what are you gaping at me for? Why don’t you clean master’s shoes, you lazy nigger? What’s Scip’ poking about—why don’t he bring in the stuff to make the fire burn? Breakfast wont be ready till nine o’clock, and madam will be down scolding so that the house wont hold her—sich a life as I lead!”