that a child sometimes goes sad and discouraged by their
side, and learns with surprise, in some chance way, that they are proud
and fond of him. There are times when the open expression of a father's
love would be worth more than church or sermon to a boy; and his father
cannot utter it, will not show it.

The other thing that represses the utterances of love is the
characteristic _shyness_ of the Anglo-Saxon blood. Oddly enough, a race
born of two demonstrative, outspoken nations--the German and the
French--has an habitual reserve that is like neither. There is a
powerlessness of utterance in our blood that we should fight against,
and struggle outward towards expression. We can educate ourselves to it,
if we know and feel the necessity; we can make it a Christian duty, not
only to love, but to be loving,--not only to be true friends, but to
_show_ ourselves friendly. We can make ourselves say the kind things
that rise in our hearts and tremble back on our lips,--do the gentle and
helpful deeds which we long to do and shrink back from; and, little by
little, it will grow easier,--the love spoken, will bring back the
answer of love,--the kind deed will bring back a kind deed in
return,--till the hearts in the family-circle, instead of being so many
frozen, icy islands, shall be full of warm airs and echoing bird-voices
answering back and forth with a constant melody of love.

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.

Dear Sir,--Your letter come to han',
Requestin' me to please be funny;
But I a'n't made upon a plan
Thet knows wut 's comin', gall or honey:
Ther' 's times the world doos look so queer,
Odd fancies come afore I call 'em;
An' then agin, for half a year,
No preacher 'thout a call 's more solemn.

You 're 'n want o' sunthin' light an' cute,
Rattlin' an' shrewd an' kin' o' jingleish,
An' wish, pervidin' it 'ould suit,
I 'd take an' citify my English.
I _ken_ write long-tailed, ef I please,--
But when I 'm jokin', no, I thankee;
Then, 'fore I know it, my idees
Run helter-skelter into Yankee.

Sence I begun to scribble rhyme,
I tell ye wut, I ha'n't ben foolin';
The parson's books, life, death, an' time
Hev took some trouble with my schoolin';
Nor th' airth don't git put out with me,
Thet love her 'z though she wuz a woman;
Why, th' a'n't a bird upon the tree