ow many base deeds are sanctioned by your
name!" Don't I wish I was a heathen! In twenty-four hours the whole
country will be down on us.

O for a pen to paint the slaves
Whose "country" like a deadly blight
Closes all hearts when Pity craves
And turns God's spirit to darkest night!
May life's patriotic cup for such
Be filled with glory overmuch;
And when their spirits go above in pride,
Spirit of Patriotism, let these valiant abide
Full in the sight of grand mass-meeting--I don't
Want you to cuss them,
But put them where they can hear politics,
And yet can't discuss them!

(I can't say worse than that!)

June 26th.

Yesterday morning, just as I stepped out of bed I heard the report of
four cannon fired in rapid succession, and everybody asked everybody
else, "Did you hear that?" so significantly, that I must say my heart
beat very rapidly for a few moments, at the thought of another
stampede. At half-past six this morning I was wakened by another
report, followed by seven others, and heard again the question, "Did
you hear _that_?" on a higher key than yesterday.--It did not take me
many minutes to get out of bed, and to slip on a few articles, I
confess. My chief desire was to wash my face before running, if they
were actually shelling us again. It appears that they were only
practicing, however, and no harm was intended. But we are living on
such a volcano, that, not knowing what to expect, we are rather
nervous.

I am afraid this close confinement will prove too much for me; my long
walks are cut off, on account of the soldiers. One month to-morrow
since my last visit to the graveyard! That haunts me always; it must be
so dreary out there! Here is a sketch of my daily life, enough to
finish me off forever, if much longer persisted in.

First, get up a little before seven. After breakfast, which is
generally within a few minutes after I get down (it used to be _just_
as I got ready, and sometimes before, last winter), I attend to my
garden, which consists of two strips of ground the length of the house,
in front, where I can find an hour's work in examining and admiring my
flowers, replanting those that the cows and horses occasionally (once a
day) pull up for me, and in turning the soil over and over again to see
which side grows best. O my garden! abode of rare de