In Touch With Nature: Tales and Sketches from the Life

Rowan-Tree Cottage.

“The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There, woman’s voice flows forth in song Or childhood’s tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.” Mrs Hemans.

“You’re my Maggie May, aren’t you?”

There was a murmured “Yes,” and a tired and weary wee head was laid to rest on my shoulder.

We were all sitting round the log fire that burned on our low hearth, one wild night in winter. Outside such a storm was raging as seldom visits the southern part of these islands. It had been hard frost for days before, with a bright and cloudless sky; but on the morning of this particular day the blue had given place to a uniform leaden grey. The cloud canopy lowered, the horizon neared, then little pellets of snow began to fall no larger than millet-seeds, till they covered all the hard ground, and powdered the lawn, and lay on the laurel-leaves, and on the ivy that the sparrows so love. Gradually these pellets gave place to broad dry flakes of snow.

“How beautiful it was, falling so silently all day long, All night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, On the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead.”