_The corn tops ripe and the meadows in the bloom The birds make music all the day._ They waken with the dawn--a feathered orchestra--incessant, fearless--for each of its pieces--from the sweet trombone of the dove to the shrill clarionet of the jay--knows that it is safe. There are no guns about. We have with us, and have had for five and twenty years, a family of colored people who know our ways and meet them intelligently and faithfully. When we go away--as we do each winter and sometimes during the other seasons--and come again--dinner is on the table, and everybody--even to Tigue and Bijou, the dogs--is glad to see us. Could mortal ask for more? And so let me close with the wish of my father's old song come true--the words sufficiently descriptive of the reality: _In the downhill of life when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow chair can afford for reclining And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea-- A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game. And a purse when my friend needs to borrow; I'll envy no nabob his riches, nor fame, Nor the honors that wait him to-morrow._ _And when at the close I throw off this frail cov'ring Which I've worn for three-score years and ten-- On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again. But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow-- That this worn-out old stuff which is thread-bare to-day_