The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 95, September 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 95, September 1865: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
tender herbs than the stately and beautiful conservatory. That is why I
built a conservatory. The walls were of brick: there was a pile of
bricks in a corner of the barn. The roof was of glass: there was a pile
of _passées_ windows, ditto, ditto. The edifice was not quite so firm as
might be desired, owing to the circumstance of there being no
underpinning nor cement. Nor did its sides not sometimes deviate from
strictly right lines, as they were obliged to yield to the undulations
of the soil; but it was at least classical,--brick and windows. The only
serious trouble with it was, that one fine morning it ceased to be
conservative at all, but became revolutionary to the last
degree,--utterly subversive, in fact, of the existing order of things.
Why, the calves got in overnight and turned everything topsyturvy. Their
hoofs crushed in the walls and roof, and the walls and roof between them
crushed the tomatoes, so that architecture and horticulture were
involved in a common ruin. We knew it was the calves, because their
juvenile tracks were all about. Besides, there were the calves. It
turned out to be of no account, for that proved to be a bad year for
tomatoes, so we should have had none in any event, and were saved all
the trouble of cultivating them, while the calves had a free frolic,
poor things. To be sure, they have a fine court-yard for exercise, a
vestibule for noon-day lounging, and snug quarters for sleep and
shelter; but, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,
"Fredome is a noble thing!
Fredome mayss man to haiff liking:
Fredome all solace to man giffis:
He levys at ess, that frely levys!
A noble calf may haiff nane ess,
Na ellys nocht that may him pless,
Gyff fredome failyhe: for fre liking
Is yharnyt our all othir thing.
Na he, that ay hass levyt fre,
May nocht knaw weill the propyrte,
The angyr, na the wrechyt dome,
That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome.
Bot gyff he had assayit it,
Than all perquer he suld it wyt;
And suld think fredome mar to pryss,
Than all the gold in warld that is."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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