cious
memories. It is a curiosity one grows more and more willing to pardon,
for there is so little to amuse them in every-day life. I wonder if
any one has not often been struck, as I have, by the sadness and
hopelessness which seems to overshadow many of the people who live on
the lonely farms in the outskirts of small New-England villages. It is
most noticeable among the elderly women. Their talk is very cheerless,
and they have a morbid interest in sicknesses and deaths; they tell
each other long stories about such things; they are very forlorn; they
dwell persistently upon any troubles which they have; and their petty
disputes with each other have a tragic hold upon their thoughts,
sometimes being handed down from one generation to the next. Is it
because their world is so small, and life affords so little amusement
and pleasure, and is at best such a dreary round of the dullest
housekeeping? There is a lack of real merriment, and the fun is an
odd, rough way of joking; it is a stupid, heavy sort of fun, though
there is much of a certain quaint humor, and once in a while a flash
of wit. I came upon a short, stout old sister in one room, making all
the effort she possibly could to see what was on the upper shelves of
a closet. We were the only persons there, and she looked longingly at
a convenient chair, and I know she wished I would go away. But my
heart suddenly went out toward an old dark-green Delft bowl which I
saw, and I asked her if she would be kind enough to let me take it, as
if I thought she were there for the purpose. "I'll bring you a chair,"
said I; and she said, "Certain, dear." And I helped her up, and I'm
sure she had the good look she had coveted while I took the bowl to
the window. It was badly cracked, and had been mended with putty; but
the rich, dull color of it was exquisite. One often comes across a
beautiful old stray bit of china in such a place as this, and I
imagined it filled with apple-blossoms or wild roses. Mrs. Wallis
wished to give it to me, she said it wasn't good for any thing; and,
finding she did not care for it, I bought it; and now it is perched
high in my room, with the cracks discreetly turned to the wall. "Seems
to me she never had thrown away nothing," said my friend, whom I found
still standing on the chair when I came back. "Here's some pieces of a
pitcher: I wonder when she broke it! I've heard her say it was one her
grandmother give her, though. The old lady bought it