Moss....Maternal Love. Moss is selected to be the emblem of maternal love, because, like that love, it glads the heart when the winter of adversity overtakes us, and when summer friends have deserted us. Rousseau, so long the prey of his own passions, and tormented by those of other men, soothed the latter years of his life by the study of nature. The Mosses, in particular, attracted his attention. It is these, he would say, that give a look of youth and freshness to the fields, at the moment when the flowers have gone to their graves. In winter the Mosses offer to the eye of the lover of nature their carpet of emerald green, their secret nuptials, and the charming mysteries of the urns and amphoræ which enclose their posterity. It is asserted that without the Mosses, part of our globe would be uninhabitable. At the northern extremity of the earth, the Laplanders cover their subterranean abodes with Moss, and thus defy the longest and most terrible winters. Their numerous herds of reindeer have no other food, yet they supply their owners with delicious milk, nutritious flesh, and warm clothing; thus combining for the poor Laplander all the advantages that we derive from the horse, cow, and sheep. There is none In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within Mrs. Hemans. The docile, swift Reindeer! Oh, when I was a child, wild; I read about the "Hundred Nights," in the Arabian Tales, That tell of Genii, sprites, and dwarfs, of gold and diamond vales. I read of Eastern gardens and palaces so rare, And of Sultans and Sultanas, the cruel and the fair. I read of voyages without end; of travels many too, And fairy-tales and story-books—of these, good sooth, not few. But I remember, more than all, I loved to think and hear Of thee—thou strong and beautiful—thou swift and good Reindeer! I remember in my earliest home, a dim antique beaufet, And high upon its many shelves, things manifold were set. Some piles of dark old books there were, amid the motley crowd, And when tall enough to reach them, oh! glad was I, and proud. And there I found old Æsop, whose fables we all know, And Cookery-books of ancient dates, most grim and well worn too. These I just peeped at, and put back—and still went groping on Deep into that small mine of wealth that I so late had won. Soon with some daring tugs, I brought a lumbering volume slap Down on the floor! I sat down too, and dragged it on my lap. The binding was antique and worn—the title-page was out, And yet the treasure won from me a child's exultant shout; For there were pictures many, of beast, and fish, and bird; And thou wert there, thou good Reindeer, of whom so much I'd heard. And that great heavy ancient book was such a prize to me! It told me of the monstrous whale, and the small good honey-bee; It told me of the elephant, the tiger, the gazelle, Of the vast luxuriant jungles, and the lone, bright desert well; Of humming-birds that sip the dew of flowers as they fly, Of prairies wild, and wide, and green; of snowy mountains high: I read there of the Northern sea, where iceberg islands float, . And crush the great three-masted ship, as 'twere a cockle-boat; I read about the harmless seals, and the shaggy Polar bear, And the mighty troops of hungry wolves that roam and riot there. I read of Nature's glorious works, and wondering went on, And found before me pleasures, whose round will ne'er be done. And in my good old-fashioned book I read of herb and tree, That were food for man, and beast and bird, and for the honey-bee. I read of grove-like banyans, of cedars broad and tall, Of the lofty towering palm, and the Moss and lichen small. And then I found how wondrously the poor Reindeer was fed, When over all his frozen land deep winter's snow lay spread; How God had bid the barren ground produce this strange small thing, On which whole countless herds of deer are ever pas turing: How, in the woods of scattered pine abundantly it grows, And clothes the earth for many a mile beneath the trackless snows; How the sagacious Reindeer delves, and scents his onward way, Till he reaches his scant mossy food, that doth his toil repay. Oh! see him with his master's sledge! How swift they glide along, Like a bird, or a fairy car I've read of, in some quaint old song. Away! o'er the boundless snowy waste, so glittering and bright: Away!—through the dark pine forest, as gloomy as the night: Away o'er the frozen lake, the river, and the fen, Away! Away!—Ye have winsome steeds, ye little Lapland men! Ay, winsome steeds in sooth, with their antlers branched and high; So sure of foot, and swift of pace, they truly seem to fly. Ye need no palace-stables, no saucy pampered grooms, To stretch your cracking purse-strings, and strut in liveried plumes; No heavy half-year's bills, for oats, beans, straw, and hay. The forest yields them lodgment, and food, where'er they stray. And thus we find, in every clime, things beautiful and fair, Each fitted to fulfil its task of use and beauty there; And I remember thinking so, when, a little child, I read The history of the good Reindeer, and the Moss whereon they fed. Louisa A. Twamley. Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurst As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain— 'Tis the only one that will long remain: And as year by year, and day by day, Some friend still trusted drops away, Mother! dear mother! oh! dost thou see How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee? Willis. |