The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862

The Spring poems have begun. Vide licet.

TO AN EARLY BIRDIn homely phrase we oft are told'Tis early birds that catch the worms;But certainly that Spring bird thereDon't half believe the aforesaid terms.He's sorry that he hither flew,In hopes a forward March to find,And towards warm climates, whence he came,To backward march is sore inclined.Lured by one ray of sunlight, heFlew northward to our land of snow;And now, with frozen toes, he standsOn frozen earth:—the worms—below!Tu whit! whit! whit! he tries in vainTo whistle in a cheerful way;He feels he's badly sold, and that—He came too early in the day.I sprinkle seed and crumbs around;He quickly flies and famished eats:—He would have starved to death had heRelied on proverb-making cheats.

Of the same up-Springings, in higher vein, we have the following:—

APRILBY ED. SPRAGUE RANDNow with the whistling rush of stormy winds,'Mid weeping skies and smiling, sunny hours,Comes the young Spring, and scatters, from the pines,O'er the brown—woodland soft, balsamic showers.Wake, azure squirrel cups, on grassy hills!Peep forth, blue violets, upon the heath!The epigræa from the withered leavesSends out the greeting of her perfumed breath.Nodding anemones within the woodShake off the winter's sleep, and haste to greet;Where in the autumn the blue asters stood,The saxifrage creeps out, with downy feet.Nature is waking! From a wreath of snow,Close by the garden walls, the snowdrop springs;And the air rings with tender melodies,Where thro' the dark firs flash the bluebird's wings.A few days hence, and o'er the distant hillsA tender robe of verdure shall be spread,And life in myriad forms be manifest,Where all seemed desolate, and dark, and dead.E'en now, upon the sunny woodland slopes,The fair vanessa flits with downy wing;And in the marshes, with the night's approach,The merry hylas in full chorus sing.Patience and faith, all will be bright again.Take from the present, for the future hours,The tendered promise. In the storm and rain,Remember suns shine brighter for the showers.To us, my countrymen, the lesson comes;Our night of winter dawns in brightest day;The storm is passing, and the rising sunDispels our doubts, drives cloudy fears away.The sun of freedom, veiled in clouds too long,Sheds o'er our land its rays of quickening life;And liberty, our starry banner, waves,Proclaiming freedom mid the battle's strife.STRIKING TURPENTINE

Not a bad story that of the physician, who, vaccinating several medical students, 'performed the ceremony' for a North Carolinian from the pitch, tar and turpentine districts. The lancet entering the latter's arm a little too deep, owing to the Corn-cracker jerking his arm through nervousness, one of the medical students called out,—

'Take care there, doctor, if you don't look out you'll strike turpentine.'

The Corn-cracker—full of spirit—wanted to fight.

We should have handed this anecdote over to X., who travels through the Pines, that he might pronounce on its authenticity. The following, however, we know to be true—on the word of a very spirituelle dame, long resident in the Old North State. When the present war first sent its murmurs over the South, an old bushman earnestly denied that it 'would ruin everything.' 'Kin it stop the turpentime from running?' he triumphantly cried. 'In course not. Then what difference kin it make to the country?'

The following sketch, 'Hiving the Bees and what came of it,' from a valued friend and correspondent in New Haven, is a humorous and truthful picture of the old-fashioned rural 'discipline' once so general and now so rapidly becoming a thing of the past:—

HIVING BEES AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

When a boy at school in the town of G– I became acquainted with old Deacon Hubbard and his wife—two as good Christian people as could be found, simple in their manners and kind-hearted. The deacon was 'well to do in the world,' having a fine farm, a pleasant house, and, with his quiet way of living, apparently everything to make him comfortable.

He took great delight in raising bees, and the product of his hives was every year some hundreds of pounds of honey, for which there was always a ready market, though he frequently gave away large quantities among his neighbors.

One Sunday morning, when passing the place of Deacon Hubbard on my way to meeting, I saw the deacon in his orchard near his house, apparently in great trouble about something in one of his apple trees. I crossed the road to the fence and called to him, and asked him what was the matter. He was a very conscientious man, and would not do anything on the Lord's day that could be done on any other; but he cried, 'Oh, dear! my bees are swarming, and I shall surely lose them. If I was a young man I could climb the tree and save them, but I am too old for that.' I jumped over the fence, and as I approached him he pointed to a large dark mass of something suspended from the limb of an apple tree, which to me was a singular-looking object, never having before seen bees in swarming time. I had great curiosity to see the operation of hiving, and suggested that perhaps I could help him, though at the time afraid the bees would sting me for my trouble. The gratification to be derived I thought would repay the risk, and calling to mind some lines I had heard,—

'Softly, gently touch a nettle,It will sting thee for thy pains;Grasp it like a man of mettle,Soft and harmless it remains,—'

I told him that I would assist him. He assured me that if I could only get a rope around the limb above and fasten it to the one on which the bees were, then saw off that limb and lower it down, he could secure them without much trouble.

With saw and rope in hand I ascended the tree, and, after due preparation, severed the limb and carefully lowered it within the deacon's reach. I was surprised, and felt repaid for my trouble, to see with what ease and unconcern Dea. Hubbard, with his bare hands, scooped and brushed the swarm of bees into a sheet he had prepared, and how readily he got them into a vacant hive. Many thanks did the deacon proffer me for my timely assistance, and moreover insisted on my staying with him to dine. It seemed to me that I was never in a more comfortable house, and I am sure I never received a more cordial greeting than that bestowed upon me by his venerable spouse.

The place where I boarded with several other boys was with a widow lady by the name of White, who was very kind to me, but who had the misfortune to have had three husbands, and her daughters did not all revere the memory of the same father, and consequently there were oftentimes differences among them.

For several days after this transaction I had noticed on the table at our daily meal a nice dish of honey, an unusual treat, but to which we boys paid due respect.

My term at school expired, and I went home to my father's, a distance of some thirty miles, and assisted him on the farm during the fall months, employing much of my leisure time in studying.

My father was a stern, straight-forward man—a member of the Orthodox church, and one who professed to believe in all the proprieties of life, and endeavored to impress the same on the minds of his children.

One day, after dinner, he said to me, in his stern way of speaking,—'Gilbert, what kind of scrape did you get into in G–?'

For my life I could not tell what I had been doing, and had but little chance to think, ere he tossed a letter across the table and said, 'Read that, and tell me what it means!' The letter was directed to me, but he had exercised his right to open and read it for me. It was from G–, and signed by the four deacons of the church there, asking explicit answers to the following questions:—1st. Did you help Deacon Hubbard hive his bees? 2d. If so, did you receive any remuneration from him for your services? 3d. Will you state what it was? You are expected to answer the questions fully.'

'What have you to say to that, young man?' said my father, with more than usual sternness; and I began to think that I had got into some kind of difficulty.

I told him that I would answer the letter, so went to my room and wrote, saying that I did help Deacon Hubbard hive his bees, and that I had been paid a thousand times by the many acts of kindness of himself and wife, and should always feel happy in doing anything for them that I could.

As my father read this letter I had written, I noticed a smile on his countenance, which lasted but an instant, when he said, 'You may send it; but I want to know what this scrape is, and I will.'

A few days after the reply was sent, another letter arrived from the four deacons, stating that I had not been explicit enough in my answer, and wanted me to say, 1st. Whether I had helped Deacon Hubbard hive his bees on Sunday. 2d. Whether I had ever received from him a large pan of honey in the comb? 3d. Whether my father was a member of the church? 4th. Whether he would give his consent for me to come to G– on business of great importance if they would pay my expenses, and how soon I could come?

It was cold weather, several months after I left G–, when this letter came to hand, and I did not fancy a ride of thirty miles at that time; I however had permission to promise that I would be there on the first Monday in May, which was the day of 'General Training,' and a great day at that period. In my answer to the second letter I said that I thought I had answered their first question sufficiently before; and in answer to the second I would say, that I had never received any honey from Deacon Hubbard; to the third, that my father was a member of the church; and to the fourth, that I would come there on the day named above.

The first Monday in May was a bright and lovely day, and at an early hour I mounted a horse and started for G–, arriving there before noon. On my way into the village I had to pass the house of Deacon Hubbard, who, knowing that I was expected that day, was looking for my approach, and as I drew near the house I saw his venerable form in the road. It was my intention to pass his house without being seen, but that was impossible. He insisted on my going into the house. His good wife met me at the door with a cordial greeting, but, with tearful eyes, said she feared there was some dreadful trouble in store for me, for the deacons of the church had been watching for me all the morning. After explaining as well as I could the reason of my visit, with the little information I had, Deacon Hubbard exclaimed—'Well, I don't know but they'll make you walk the church aisle, for there's some trouble somewhere.' We had but little time for conversation before Mrs. H. saw the venerable deacons approaching the house; and I shall never forget the solemn look and steps with which they advanced, the senior deacon, Flagg, leading the procession. As they were ushered into the front room they seated themselves in a row according to their respective ages, each wearing the solemn countenance of a Pilgrim father. When I entered the room they all arose and took me by the hand, thanking me for faithfully keeping my promise, and hoped the Lord would reward me therefor. Deacon Flagg, after a few preliminary remarks, said: 'Young man, there has been a grievous sin committed among the Lord's anointed in our church, and we have sent for you that we may be enabled to detect the erring one! and we hope you will so far consider the importance of the matter as to answer truly the questions that may be propounded to you. My young friend, will you have the goodness to say, in the hearing of our good brother, Deacon Hubbard, whether or not you ever received from him a present of a large pan of honey for helping him hive his bees?'

I answered that I never had. All eyes were turned on Deacon H., and an audible groan came from Deacon Harris as I made my reply. Deacon Flagg addressed me as follows:—'My youthful friend, will you be willing to accompany these gentlemen to the house of sister White, and say the same before her?' I was willing, provided my friend Deacon Hubbard would go along, which he consented to do, and we started.

It was but a short way across the Common, and ours was a solemn, silent procession, and I must have appeared like a very culprit. On nearing the house, Deacon Flagg said he would first enter and inform sister White of our business, and return when she was ready to receive us. He returned in a short time, with a longer face than before, and as he approached us, clasping his hands, he said with an agonized tone, 'Dear brethren, Oh! it is all too true! Satan entered her heart,—she coveted the honey,—and fell.' A groan of holy horror came from all the good old men. It was not necessary for us to enter the abode of wickedness, he said, for she would confess all.

The whole proceeding had been a mystery to me, but I soon learned that the next day after hiving the bees, Deacon Hubbard had sent a large pan of honey to sister White's house, intended for me, but she gave us boys a little for a few days and put the rest away; or, as she afterwards said, she coveted it, and said nothing to me about it; and I should probably have known nothing of it had it not been for a disagreement between herself and daughters about a division of the honey, which finally got to be a church matter.

Deacon Hubbard insisted on my going to dine with him; so, with a parting shake of the hand with the other four venerable men, we started for his house. Such a feast as dame Hubbard had provided on that occasion boys do not often see; substantial food enough for half a score of men, aside from the pies and plum pudding which made their appearance in due course; and in front of the dish assigned to me was a dish of the purest honey. After dinner Deacon Hubbard took me to see his bees, and explained many things in relation to them curious and instructive, promising more information on the subject if he could prevail upon me to remain in G– till the next morning. The fatigue of the long ride that day, and my desire to see a little of the 'Training,' decided me to remain over night.

In the morning my horse was fresh, having been well taken care of by my friend; so, after a hearty breakfast, I bade adieu to the good couple, with a pleasant recollection of their hospitality and kindness. When ready to start, dame Hubbard, with the best intentions, brought me a large pail of honey, wishing I would carry it home to my parents, but as it was impossible for me to carry it on horseback, I had to decline.

It was near noon the next day when I reached home, and my first greeting from my father was, 'Well, Gilbert, now let me know about the scrape you got into last summer in G–.'

I told him all I had learned about the matter, to which be expressed his pleasure that it was no worse, and gave me much good advice as to the future.

A few weeks after I readied home there was a large tub of honey left at my father's house, with a letter for me, informing me that sister White had been expelled from the church in G– for covetousness; that my friends the Hubbards were well; that the four deacons spoke very highly in my praise, and hoped I would feel rewarded for the trouble I had taken. Years have passed since the matters here mentioned took place, but up to this time nothing has been said to me about 'paying my expenses.'

JAY G. BEE.

Mrs. Malaprop founded a school which has been prolific in disciples. From one of these we learn that—

Old Mr. P. died a short time ago, much to the regret of his many friends, for he was a good neighbor, and had always lived honestly and uprightly among his fellow-men. At the time of his funeral Mrs. L. was sorrowing for his loss, with others of her sex, and paid the following tribute to his memory:

'Poor Mr. P., he was a good man, a kind man, and a Christian man—he always lived according to HOYLE, and died with the hope of a blessed immortality.'

'Played the wrong card there.'

ADAM'S FAMILY JARSIN CRACKED NUMBERSOne fact is fundamental,One truth is rudimental;Before man had the rentalOf this dwelling of a day,He was in nothing mental,But an image-man of clay.In the groundWas the image found;Of the groundWas it molded round;And empty of breath,And still as in death,Inside not a ray,Outside only clay,Deaf and dumb and blind,Deadest of the kind,There it lay.Unto what was it like? In its shape it was what?The world says 'a man,'—but the world is mistaken.To revive the old story, a long time forgot,'Twasn't man that was made, but a pot that was baken.And what if it was human-faced like the Sphinx?There's no riddle to solve, whate'er the world thinks:The fiat that made it, from its heels to its hair,Wasn't simply 'Be man!' but 'Stand up and Be Ware!'And straightway acknowledging its true kith and kinWith that host of things known to be hollow within,It took up a stand with its handles akimbo,Bowels and bosom in a cavernous limbo.Curving out at the bottom, it swelled to a jig;Curving in at the top, narrow-necked, to the mug;Two sockets for sunshine in the frontispiece placed,A crack just below—merely a matter of taste;A flap on each side hiding holes of resounding,For conveyance within of noises surrounding;And a nozzle before,All befitted to snore,Was a part of the wareFor adornment and air.Now for what was this slender and curious mold?Had it no purpose? Had it nothing to hold?A world full of meaning, my friend, if 'twere told.You remember those jars in the Arabian Night,As they stood 'neath the stars in Al' Baba's eyesight:Little dreamed Ali Baba what ajar could excite—For how much did betideWhen a man was inside!When from under each cover a man was to spring,Where then was the empty, insignificant thing?It was so with this jar,'Twasn't hollow by far;Breathless at first as an exhausted receiver,When the air was let in, lo! man, the achiever!But an accident happened, a cruel surprise;How frail proved the man, and how very unwise!As if plaster of Paris, and not Paradise,No more of clay consecrate,He broke up disconsolate,Pot-luck for his fortune, though the world's potentate.It brings to our memory that Indian camp,Where men lay in ambush, every one with a lamp,Each light darkly hid in a vessel of clay,Till the sword should be drawn, and then on came the fray.'Twas so in the fortunes of this queer earthen race,(It happened before they were more than a brace).The fact of a fallDid break upon all!The lamp of each life being uncovered by sin,The pitcher was broken, and the devil pitched in!So much for his story to the moment he erred,From what dignified pot he became a pot-sherd.Since that day the great world,Like a wheel having twirled,Hath replenished the earth from the primitive pair,And turned into being every species of ware.There are millions and millions on the planet to-day,Of all sorts, and all sizes, all ranks we may say;There's a rabble of pots, with the dregs and the scum,And a peerage of pots, above finger and thumb.Look round in this pottery, look down to the ground,Where bottle and mug, jug and pottle abound;From the plebeian throng see the graded array;There is shelf above shelf of brittle display,As rank above rank the poor mortals arise,From menial purpose to princely disguise.See vessels of honor, emblazoned with cash,Of standing uncertain, preparing to dash.See some to dishonor, in common clay-bake,Figure high where the fire and the flint do partake.There's the bottle of earth by glittering glass,As by blood of the gentlest excelling its class,Becoming instanterA portly decanter!There's the lowly bowl, or the basin broad,By double refinement a punch-bowl lord!There's the beggarly jug, ignoble and base,By adornment of art the Portland vase!But call them, title them, what you will,They're bound to break, they are brittle still;No saving pieces, or repairing,No Spaulding's glue for human erring;All alike they will go together,And lie in Potter's field forever.At length the whole secret of life is told:'Tis because we're earth, and not of gold,'Tis because we're ware that beware we must,Lest we crack, and break, and crumble to dust.What wonder that men so clash together,And in the clash so break with each other!Or that households are full of family jars,And boys are such pickles in spite of papas!That the cup of ill-luck is drained to the dregs,When a man's in his cups and not on his legs!That meaning should be in that word for a sot,He's ruined forever—he's going to pot!So goes the world and its generations,So go its tribes, and its tribulations;Crowding together on the stream of time,It almost destroys the chime of my rhyme,While they strike, and they grind, and rub and dash,And are sure to go to eternal smash.Lamentable sight to be seen here below!Man after man sinking,—blow after blow,—A bubble, a choke,—each blow is a knell,—Broken forever! There's no more to tell.There is more to tell, of a promise foretold;Though now 'tis a vessel of homeliest mold,Yet 'tis that which will prove a crock of gold,When the crack of doom shall the truth unfold.'Tis hard to believe, for so seemeth life,A cruse full of oil, with nothing more rife;Yet what saith the prophet? It never shall fail:Life is perennial, of immortal avail.'Tis hard to believe, for to dust we return,To lie like the ashes in a burial urn;But look at the skies! see the heavenly bowers!The urn is a vase—the ashes are flowers!'Tis hard to believe; like a jar full of tears,Life is filled with humanity's griefs and fears;'Tis a tear-jar o'erflowing, close by the urn,Even weeping for those in that gloomy sojourn.And yet, when with time it has crumbled away,The omnipotent Potter will in that dayTurn again to the pattern of Paradise,Will fashion it anew and bid it arise,A jar full adorned and with richest designs,With tracery covered, and heavenly signs,With jewels deep-set, and with fine gold inlaid,Enamel of love,—yes, a nature new made.And then from the deep bottom, as from a cupOf blessing, there ever will come welling upThe living waters of a pellucid soul,A gush of the spirit, from a heart made whole.So, like the water-pots rough, by the door at the East,Our purpose will change, and our power be increased,When we stand in the gate of the Heavenly Feast:The word will be spoken: we'll flow out with wineThe blood of the true Life, pressed from the true Vine,Perpetual chalice, inexhaustible bowl,Of pleasures immortal, overflowing the soul!

Dust we are and to dust we must return—but, as the old epitaph said of Catherine Gray, who sold pottery,—

'In some tall pitcher or broad panShe in life's shop may live again,'—

so, in a higher sphere we may all become vases unbreakable, filled with the wine of life.

Were the enemy in their senses they would probably admit that the annexed proposal is far from being deficient in common-sense:—

DEAR CONTINENTAL:

I see that it is proposed by the Southern press that the rebels, as they retreat, shall burn all their tobacco.

I have a proposition to make.

Let General McCLELLAN send a flag of truce and inform them that if they need any assistance in that work, nothing will give me greater pleasure than to assist in the consummation.

I have an enormous meerschaum and a corps of friends equally well piped. If the seceders have no time to ignite the weed, we are quite ready, and a great deal more willing, considering the late frightful rise in Lynchburg, to do it for them. I can answer for burning one pound a day myself. What do you think of it? It isn't traitorous in me, is it, to thus desire to aid and assist the enemy?

Yours truly,RAUCHER.A CURE FOR STEALINGFar back among the days of yoreThere's many a pleasing tale in store,Rich with the humor of the time,That sometimes jingle well in rhyme.Of these, the following may possessA claim on 'hours of idleness.'When Governor Gurdon Saltonstall,Like Abram Lincoln, straight and tall,Presided o'er the Nutmeg State,A loved and honored magistrate,His quiet humor was portrayedIn Yankee tricks he sometimes played.The Governor had a serious air,'Twas solemn as a funeral prayer,But when he spoke the mirth was stirred,—A joke leaped out at every word.One morn, a man, alarmed and pale,Came to him with a frightful tale;The substance was, that Jerry StyleHad stolen wood from off his pile.The Governor started in surprise,And on the accuser fixed his eyes.'He steal my wood! to his regret,Before this blessed sun shall set,I'll put a final end to that.'Then, putting on his stately hat,All nicely cocked and trimmed with lace,He issued forth with lofty grace,Bade the accuser; duty mind,'And follow him 'five steps behind.'Ere they a furlong's space complete,They meet the culprit in the street;The Governor took him by the hand—That lowly man! that Governor grand!—Kindly inquired of his condition,His present prospects and position.The man a tale of sorrow told—That food was dear, the winter cold,That work was scarce, and times were hard,And very ill at home they fared,—And, more than this, a bounteous HeavenTo them a little babe had given,Whose brief existence could attestThis world's a wintry world at best.A silver crown, whose shining faceKing William's head and Mary's grace,Dropped in his hand. The Governor spoke,—His voice was cracked—it almost broke,—'Ifwork is scarce, and times are hard,There's a large wood-pile in my yard;Of that you may most freely use,So go and get it when you choose.'Then on he walked, serenely feelingThat there he'd put an end to stealing.The accuser's sense of duty grewThe space 'twixt him and Governor too.

'The Anaconda is tightening its folds,' and at every fold the South cries aloud. The following bit of merry nonsense, which has the merit of being 'good to sing,' may possibly enliven more than one camp-fire, ere the last fold of the 'big sarpent' has given the final stifle to the un-fed-eralists.