Sing, saucepan, range, and kitchen fire! Sing, coals are high and always higher! Sing, crossed and vexed, till you expire! Cookery bookery, oh! _Jocosa Lyra!_ one chord of its gay music suggests another. It may have been in this summer that she wrote "The Newport Song," which also has its own lilting melody. _Non sumus fashionabiles: Non damus dapes splendides:_ But in a modest way, you know, We like to see our money go: _Et gaudeamus igitur_, Our soul has nought to fidget her! We do not care to quadrigate On Avenues in gilded state: No gold-laced footmen laugh behind At our vacuity of mind: But in a modest one-horse shay, We rumble, tumble as we may, _Et gaudeamus igitur_, Our soul has nought to fidget her! When æstivation is at end, We've had our fun and seen our friend. No thought of payment makes us ill, We don't know such a word as "bill": _Et gaudeamus igitur_, Our soul has nought to fidget her! She always tried to go at least once in the summer to see the old people at the Town Farm, a pleasant, gray old house, not far from Oak Glen. "In the afternoon visited the poorhouse with J. and F. and found several of the old people again, old Nancy who used to make curious patchwork; old Benny, half-witted; Elsteth, Henrietta, and Harriet, very glad to see us. Julia read them a Psalm, then Harriet and Elsteth sang an interminable Methodist hymn, and I was moved to ask if they would like to have me pray with them. They assented, and I can only say that my heart was truly lifted up by the sense of the universality of God's power and goodness, to which these forlorn ones could appeal as directly as could the most powerful, rich, or learned people." Later she writes:-- "The summer seems to me to have been rich in good and in interest as I review it. Sweet, studious days, pleasant intercourse with friends, the joy of preaching, and very much in all this the well-being of my dear family, children and grandchildren, their father and grandfather enjoying them with me. This is much to thank God for." Some of the family lingered on after most of the household _impedimenta_ had been sent up to Boston, and were caught napping. "Sitting quietly with Chev over the fire after a game of whist with Julia and Paddock,--a hack-driver knocked at the door of our little back parlor, saying that a gentleman was waiting at the front door for admission. I opened the door and found Dr. Alex Voickoff, who had learned in Boston of our being here and had come down to stay over Sunday. The floors of nearly every parlor and bedroom had been newly oiled. We had no spare bedding. I spared what I could from my ill-provided bed--we made the guest as comfortable as we could. The bedding had been sent up to Boston. _Hinc illæ lachrymæ._"