"A red cow," said the Doctor, "considered metaphysically or as an abstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones nor flesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these parts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no color at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the accidental properties of all the animals in its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews the cud, nor performs any other function of the horned beast, but is a mere creation of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy and nourished by a conceit of the imagination." "Pshaw!" exclaimed Aunt Judy. "All the metaphysics under the sun wouldn't make a pound of butter!" "That's a fact," said Uncle Tim. * * * * * _There is no great and no small To the Soul that maketh all: And where it cometh, all things are:-- And it cometh everywhere._ EMERSON. XLIX. INDIAN SUMMER.[J] SAMUEL LOVER.--1797-1868. When summer's verdant beauty flies, And autumn glows with richer dyes, A softer charm beyond them lies-- It is the Indian summer. Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze Bereave of beauty all the trees, The balmy spring renewal sees In the sweet Indian summer. And thus, dear love, if early years Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, A later gleam of hope appears-- Just like the Indian summer: And ere the snows of age descend, O trust me, dear one, changeless friend, Our falling years may brightly end-- Just like the Indian summer. FOOTNOTES: [J] The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called the "Indian Summer,"--a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year--strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.--LOVER. L. TO HELEN.[K] JULY 7, 1839. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.--1802-1839. Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago, When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine, Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low, And felt your soft hand tremble into mine, That in so brief--so very brief a space, He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, The darker, sadder duties of the wife,-- Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested; The daily tendance on the fractious chair, The nightly vigil by the feverish bed. Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise, Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone: Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes, In sickness, as in health,--bless you, My Own! FOOTNOTES: [K] Praed died on the 15th of July. LI. HORATIUS.[L]