We are all here-- Father, mother, sister, brother, All who hold each other dear. Each chair is filled, we're all at home; To-night let no stranger come. It is not often thus around Our old, familiar hearth we're found Blessed, then, the meeting and the spot: For once be every care forgot; Let gentle peace assert her power, And kind affection rule the hour: We're all, all here. --_Charles Sprague._ 568 Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been-- A sound which makes us linger;--yet--farewell. --_Byron._ 569 FAREWELL. If thou dost bid thy friend farewell, But for one night though that farewell may be, Press thou his hand in thine. How canst thou tell how far from thee Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes? Men have been known lightly to turn the corner of a street, And days have grown to months, And months to lagging years, ere they Have looked in loving eyes again . . . . . . Yea, find thou always time to say some earnest word Between the idle talk, lest with thee henceforth, Night and day, regret should walk. --_Unknown._ 570 MAN AND THE FARM. It is a common complaint that the farm and farm life are not appreciated by our people. We long for the more elegant pursuits, or the ways and fashions, of the town. But the farmer has the most sane and natural occupation, and ought to find it sweeter, if less highly seasoned, than any other. He alone, strictly speaking, has a home. How many ties, how many resources, he has!--his friendship with his cattle, his team, his dog, his trees; the satisfaction in his growing crops, in his improved fields; his intimacy with nature, with bird and beast, and with the quickening elemental forces; his co-operations with the cloud, the sun, the seasons, heat, wind, rain, frost. It humbles him, teaches him patience and reverence. Cling to the farm, make much of it, put yourself into it, bestow your heart and brain upon it. --_John Burroughs._ 571 A HINT TO A FARMER. Shun thou seats in the shade, nor sleep till the dawn! in the season When it is harvest-time, and your skin is parched in the sunshine. 572 MY FATHER. How beautiful is the following picture by Caroline Anne Bowles, only child of Captain Charles Bowles, of Blackland, England. Born 1787: