Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet moss, That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night’s descending robe; The twin-leaves quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like the rustling satin, As the light breezes smoothe their downy nap. Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? It is, it is, the deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout with; but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout; Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of the spicy air; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau Stript of his gaudy hues and essence, And growing portly in his sober clothes. Is that a swan that rides upon the water? Oh no! it is that other gentle bird Which is the patron of our noble calling. I well remember, in my boyhood’s time, When these young hands first closed upon a goose. I have a scar upon my thimble finger Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. My father was a tailor, and his father, And my great grandsire: all of them were tailors. They had an ancient goose; it was an heir-loom From some remoter tailor of our race. I am not certain, but I think ’twas he Who through misfortune was unfortunate. No matter; ’tis a joy to straighten out One’s limb’s, and leap elastic from the counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears And all the needles that do wound the spirit. * * * * * People on whom the hand of disease permanently mayhap to rest, as in my own case, are not unapt to be cloudy. However this may be as a general thing with others, I am not so. I heartily despise serious confabs. You may reckon it strange, my friend, but the nearer death am I, the more cheerful are my feelings. God is good.... But what have we here? * * * * * Set me down as one of small knowledge in things matrimonial. When I happen to stumble over any difficulty in that line, enacting by man and wife, down goes the cap before two crossed-eyes, my heels imitating, at the same instant, a pair of crane’s wings. When very young a picture of “Washing Day,” in the toy book, where the wife laid her good man sprawling by a well-directed blow from a water-ladle, was to me a source of much amusement; but bachelorship and sad health, have contributed to render the reality of that picture painful. * * * * *