Charlotte Turner Smith
          
Conversations introducing poetry. Volume 1
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CONVERSATI0N THE FIRST.

POEMS.

    TO A GREEN-CHAFER, ON A WHITE ROSE.

    TO A LADY-BIRD.

    THE SNAIL.

    A WALK BY THE WATER.

    INVITATION TO THE BEE.
CON-


1

CONVERSATION THE FIRST.

GEORGE—EMILY.

IN A LITTLE GARDEN CALLED THEIR OWN.

     GEORGE. Look, Emily, look at this beautiful shining insect, which has almost hid itself in this white rose, on your favourite tree.—It is shaped very like those brownish chafers, which you desired me to take away from the gardener's children yesterday, because you thought they were going to torment and hurt them; but this is not so big, and is much prettier.—See what little tassels it has on its horns; the wings shine like some part of the peacock's feathers.

     EMILY. It is very pretty—but indeed, George, I am afraid it will fly away if you disturb it. I should like to keep it in a box, but only you know, Mamma

says,


2

 says, it is cruel to deprive even an insect like this of its liberty—perhaps it would not eat if it was to be confined.

     GEORGE. I wish Mamma could see it, she would tell us the name of it; and whether, without hurting it, you might keep it in a little paper box, which you know I could make for you of some strong paper, with pin holes to give it air. I could carry it gently on the rose which it has crept into so snugly; only I do not like to gather the finest flower on our tree, for the rest of them are not yet blown so much out.

     EMILY. But suppose, brother, I stay and watch it, for fear of its flying away, while you go and desire Mamma, if she is not too busy, to come and look at it.

     MRS. TALBOT. Where is this treasure that you have found? O, this is the green-chafer. There are two sorts, I believe, of them, one is more of the colour of copper, and the other more crimson; this is the latter. They are

the


3

 the most beautiful of that species of insects, at least of those that inhabit this country; for in warm climates, where the colours of insects are much brighter, there are creatures of the beetle sort, of which the shards, or upper wings, and bodies, appear to be studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.

     EMILY. Mamma, may we take this chaser and keep it? George says he could make a box with holes for air, and we could feed it with rose leaves! Would it be wrong?

     MRS. TALBOT. No—but I do not think you would find so much satisfaction in it, as in letting your chafer enjoy his liberty, and wander from flower to flower, for they feed on several sorts. You might have found them on those beautiful guelder roses, which you know were in bloom about a fortnight since in the shrubbery, but the trees were too high for you to see them creeping among the round white bunches of blossoms, which the servants,

and


4

 and country people, aptly enough, call snow-balls. But there is an admirable description of these flowers in the poem of the Task, you know, which I read to you the other day.—The Poet calls it a rose from the usual name, and describes it—

—"Throwing up, into the darkest gloom
"Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew,
"Her silver globes; light as the foamy surf
"That the wind severs from the broken wave."

     GEORGE. But, Mamma, may Emily keep the chafer?

     MRS. TALBOT. I had rather she would not; first, because it is cruel to the insect; and also because, pretty as it is, this sort of chafer has an offensive smell when touched; and you will find, Emily, your prisoner a disagreeable inmate. Instead, therefore, of contriving the captivity of the chafer, let us address a little poem to it.

     EMILY. A poem to a chafer, Mamma?

Why


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 —Why the chafer cannot be supposed to understand it.

     MRS. TALBOT. Certainly not; prose, or poetry, we know to be equally unintelligible to an insect, as to a bird, a tree, or a flower, or any other animate, or inanimate being, that does not possess speech or reason. But you remember your brother Edward recited an address, in that style of verse called a sonnet, to a nightingale, which was composed by Milton, the first of English poets.—And the nightingale, though called the "poet of the woods," is not more qualified to understand these addresses than this shining insect. Go, then, bring me a pencil and a drawing card. We will sit down on this bank, under the laburnum, and you shall write while I dictate. Emily, by this hour to-morrow, will learn to repeat our little address.—

TO


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TO A GREEN-CHAFER, ON A WHITE ROSE.

You dwell within a lovely bower,
Little chafer, gold and green,
Nestling in the fairest flower,
The rose of snow, the garden's queen.

There you drink the chrystal dew,
And your shards as emeralds bright,
And corselet, of the ruby's hue,
Hide among the petals white.

Your fringed feet may rest them there,
And there your filmy wings may close;
But do not wound the flower so fair,
That shelters you in sweet repose.

Insect! be not like him who dares
On pity's bosom to intrude,
And then that gentle bosom tears
With baseness and ingratitude.

     MRS. TALBOT. You have written it very well.—Now, George, and you, my Emily, tell me whether you understand it?

EMILY.


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     EMILY. I don't know, Mamma, what shards are.

     MRS. TALBOT. That word is usually understood to mean the outward wings of beetles, and such insects, which under them have another pair of light filmy wings, that, when they fly, are spread out; but at other times are folded up under their hard case-like wings, so as not to be perceived.

     GEORGE. The word corselet I do not quite comprehend.

     MRS. TALBOT. That expression is taken from the French word for armour, which was worn to cover the body in battle.

     GEORGE. I understand it now—and petals, you have told us, mean the leaves of the flower itself, which should be distinguished from the green leaves that grow on the branches.

     MRS. TALBOT. Well, then you will assist your little Emily in learning this to-morrow.—But there is John crossing the

garden


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 garden with letters in his hand; let us go in to read them.

     MRS. TALBOT. Your aunt's letter contains a little poem for you, Emily. Our collection will increase, I hope, and we shall no longer be at a loss for pieces fit for you to repeat. You have often seen the little insects, called Lady-birds. You remember there were so many of them about the rooms at your uncle's in Kent, that they were quite troublesome. But the people in that country are very glad to see them, believing that their appearance is always followed by an extraordinary crop of hops. They are sometimes called burnie-bees, and sometimes lady-cows.

     GEORGE. I dare say I can find several of them in the garden, among the flowers.

EMILY.


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     EMILY. Brother, you need not even go so far, for I saw two or three in the window this morning. Here, I have found one already.—It is a very small one, with only two little black spots.

     MRS. TALBOT. There are a great many sorts of them. Some have more, and others have less of these spots; some are dark red, others of a lighter red; and now and then I have seen them black, with red spots. In shape you see these little insects resemble the chafer we saw yesterday.—Observe, he unfolds his upper wings, spreads the gauze-like pinions underneath, and prepares to fly. Farewell, Lady-bird, we are now going to read some verses about you, made, I see, in the same measure, as the nursery lullaby, which I remember when I was a child.

TO


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TO THE LADY-BIRD.

OH! Lady-bird, Lady-bird, why dost thou roam
So far from thy comrades, so distant from home?
Why dost thou, who can revel all day in the air,
Who the sweets of the grove and the garden can share,
In the fold of a leaf, who can form thee a bower,
And a place enjoy in the tube of a flower;
Ah, why, simple Lady-bird, why dost thou venture,
The dwellings of man so familiar to enter?
Too soon you may find, that your trust is misplac'd,
When by some cruel child you are wantonly chas'd,
And your bright scarlet coat, so bespotted with black,
May be torn by his barbarous hands from your back.
And your smooth jetty corselet be pierced with a pin,
That the urchin may see you in agonies spin;
For his bosom is shut against pity's appeals,
He has never been taught that a Lady-bird feels.
Ah, then you'll regret you were tempted to rove,
From the tall climbing hop, or the hazle's thick grove,
And will fondly remember each arbour and tree,
Where lately you wander'd contented and free;
Then, fly, simple Lady-bird!—fly away home,
No more from your nest, and your children to roam.

     EMILY. I shall be very glad to learn these lines, Mamma, for I think them

extremely


11

 extremely pretty.—But should I not first be perfect in those lines on the rose, which you desired me to write yesterday, after I had dressed the flower-glasses with those beautiful groupes of roses.

     MRS. TALBOT. Perhaps you can already repeat them—try.

EMILY.

QUEEN of fragrance, lovely Rose,
Thy soft and silken leaves disclose:
The winter's past, the tempests fly,
Soft gales breathe gently through the sky;
The silver dews and genial showers
Call forth a blooming waste of flowers;
And lo! thy beauties now unclose,
Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose!
Yet, ah! how soon that bloom is flown,
How soon thy blushing charms are gone!
To-day thy crimson buds unveil,
To-morrow scatter'd in the gale.
Ah! human bliss as sweetly goes,
And fades like thee, thou lovely Rose.

     GEORGE. You did not make those lines yourself, Mamma?

MRS.


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     MRS. TALBOT. No, George; I found them in some collection of poems, and changed a few words, and I believe omitted some of the stanzas.

     EMILY. And that which my brother wrote out this morning—Did you or my aunt write it?

     MRS. TALBOT. You may remember, that I mentioned it was written by the Author of "The Task"—or rather, he translated it from the Latin of Vincent Bourne; many others of whose small poems he has also translated.

     GEORGE. I liked it on account of the oddity of the measure; but you altered it a little, Mamma?

     MRS. TALBOT. I did; not however expecting to make the poetry better, but rather to make my Snail a less selfish and Epicurean animal than he appears in Vincent Bourne—Let us hear it, George, and then we will go for out evening walk.

THE


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THE SNAIL.

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks fast, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there house or all
         together.

Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides,
         of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house with much
         displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattles none,
Well satisfied to be his own
         whole treasure.

Thus Hermit like his life he leads
Alone, on simple viands feeds,
Nor at his humble banquet needs
         attendant.

And tho' without society,
He finds 'tis pleasant to be free,
And that he's blest who need not be
         dependant.
GEORGE.


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     GEORGE. And no being, certainly, can be more independent than the Snail, who carries his habitation about with him.

     EMILY. Let us see, brother, as we walk, whether we cannot find some of those yellow Snails with dark stripes, and others with blood-coloured stripes, such as you remember we found in the hedge under the elms—I don't like those ugly garden snails, that eat the green gages and peaches, and spoiled so much of our fruit last year—They are odious dirty things—

     MRS. TALBOT. Yet by no means without their use. In some parts of Italy they are used as an article of food, and are fed and cleaned for that purpose; they are also prescribed by certain physicians of Switzerland, as a remedy for consumptions. But in a garden they are very obnoxious, and if great pains were not taken by gardeners and farmers to de

stroy


15

 stroy these as well as slugs, an insect of the same species, but without a shell; the labours not only of the gardener, but often those of the farmer, would be rendered vain—Plovers, or Pewits, which are birds that live on heaths and moors, are sometimes kept in walled gardens to destroy these mischievous insects, and they are devoured by ducks and other birds—But it is time to end our conversation for this morning. Your acquaintance, young Scamperville, dines here—you must be ready to receive him, George.

EVENING.

MRS. TALBOT—EMILY.

     EMILY. Mamma, I was extremely glad to get away from that rude boy—I hope he will not come often here.

     MRS. TALBOT. Indeed, Emily, I shall

not


16

 not encourage the acquaintances; and I do not believe your brother wishes it.

     EMILY. I am sure I should not love my brothers so well as I do, if they were like this Mr. Scamperville. He is so proud, and contradicts every body, and seems to think himself so great; and besides, I never heard any boy talk so about eating, and sauces, and gravy.

     MRS. TALBOT. He has had a very bad education; his father and mother are people who live very fashionably, and have left him entirely to the chance of a school, and the superintendance of a person between a servant and a tutor, who has no wish but to make advantage of the confidence reposed in him; the boy is the echo and mimic of the people he sees, and will probably become an ignorant dissipated man of fashion, who would be despised if he was not rich; and will, like many other such people, blaze for a day, and be forgotten. But let us avail ourselves of this interval, to do at least part of our

evening


17

 evening lesson—You have learned the stanzas I gave you yesterday?

     EMILY. Yes, Mamma, I found them very easy.

A WALK BY THE WATER.

EMILY.

LET us walk where reeds are growing,
         By the alders in the mud;
Where the crystal streams are flowing,
         In whose waves the fishes feed.

There the golden carp is laving,
         With the trout, the perch, and bream;
Mark! their flexile fins are waving,
         As they glance along the stream.

Now they sink in deeper billows,
         Now upon the surface rise;
Or from under roots of willows,
         Dart to catch the water flies.

'Midst the reeds and pebbles hiding,
         See the minnow and the roach;
Or by water-lilies gliding,
         Shun with fear our near approach.
Do


18

Do not dread us timid fishes,
         We have neither net nor hook;
Wanderers we, whose only wishes
         Are to read in nature's book.
MR. SCAMPERVILLE and GEORGE come into the Room.

     GEORGE. Mother, Harry wishes me to go down to the river with him—I will go, but not to fish.

     HARRY. Then of what use will your going be? I shall hire a boat, I dare say I can, can't I?—and get a man to row us down the river: there is monstrous good sport, Germain told me, a mile or two off; and if we get as low as where the tide comes up, he says there are mullets, which are famous good eating.

     GEORGE. Well, you may do all this without me, you know, as I neither love that sort of sport, nor care about the goodness of mullets—

     MRS. TALBOT. George has rather a dislike to angling, Mr. Scamperville.

HARRY.


19

     HARRY. I dare say; one would think, however, such a quiet sport as that might suit him, tho' he says he never had a gun in his hand in his life, and never rode after the hounds.

     MRS. TALBOT. Neither, I believe, have ever entered into his notions of amusement and pleasure; he has been taught to think, that hunting, and shooting, and fishing, are made in general matters of too much importance, and that those who too ardently pursue them learn at length to believe, that man is an animal born only to ensnare and destroy every other animal. My sons have been educated to other ideas.

     HARRY. I suppose, Ma'am, you are afraid of their being drowned?

     MRS. TALBOT. Not at all, I assure you, for they have both learned to swim very well—But George has been of several fishing parties, and has found no pleasure in them, though is very fond of the water. However, if you like to take your favourite river walk, George, go.——Come

Emily,


20

 Emily, we will resort to our little green-house.

     HARRY. Come, come along!—Why if one was to listen to all this prosing, there would be no pleasure in the world—I cannot imagine, George, how you contrive to amuse yourself?

     GEORGE. I have never wanted occupation or amusement, Harry—But I can find no pleasure in putting a miserable worm on a hook, and making it wreath in torture; nor in seeing the poor fish swallow the bait and hook too, as often happens; and indeed to stand dazzling our eyes and wasting the whole days to stare at a bit of cork and a quill, only for such a sad purpose, seems to me to be a great sacrifice of time; I like much better to see the ponds let down, as they were this spring, and thousands of little fishes jumping in the nets, or shining like silver in the shallow water as they flounce about.

     HARRY. But where is the difference, pray? Were not those fishes to be eaten just the same?

GEORGE.


21

     GEORGE. No; for they are not caught for that purpose; when the ponds are drawn they are often taken out of the water where they are bred, to be removed to other ponds where they remain: my brother and I were employed to carry them to these last; and our great pleasure was to put them in gently one by one, and observe how they seemed to enjoy themselves as they were restored to their own element, and swam away.

     HARRY. O stupid work!—I should be wearied to death of such humdrum amusement.

     GEORGE. We are not; besides, my mother often walks with us, and tells us the names of different trees and flowers. She describes the inhabitants of the waters, and the birds that live on the banks of rivers. There are alders and willows of different sorts grow on the edge of the stream, and sometimes the great grey heron is seen watching under them for fish, stretching out his long neck over the

brink.


22

 brink. Sometimes she has shown us the place, under a rocky bank, where there are hollows, which are inhabited by otters—

     HARRY. Yes, and it is amazing good sport to hunt those otters. I was out one day with my father, Sir Harry, and I saw the dogs kill one.

     GEORGE. I once saw one, but it was dead. Above the river's banks too, on those high sandy rocks that are covered with birch and broom, there are great cavities, where another animal finds his dwelling, the badger.

     HARRY. Oh yes!—that is the animal they hunt at Winchester on the hills, you know. I have a cousin there, who says it is famous sport; they pen him down, and then bait him with terriers.

     GEORGE. It may be thought sport perhaps, but I think it must be extremely cruel, to harass a poor defenceless beast.

     HARRY. Stuff and nonsense!—this is cruel, and t'other thing is cruel!—Why George, since you have been so much at

home,


23

 home, you are become an absolute milk-sop! just like a man milliner.

     GEORGE. Well, I cannot help your opinion of me, you know. But to tell you the truth, Harry, I find much more pleasure and satisfaction in making my mother contented with me, than in any thing you call amusement; and it is now no sacrifice, because I have never been taught to delight in these pastimes which you so much admire.

     HARRY. I can't say I understand all that sort of thing. It would be curious, I do think, if I was to be tied to my mother's apron string, and taddle about so. I wonder which would be tired first, Lady Scamperville, or me? Why she never thinks of asking me to learn any thing in the holidays, or of telling me what this thing is, and what t'other thing is made of—We know the things are there; and if we have money to buy what we like, that is the most material, I think.

     GEORGE. But how do you expect to

have


24

 have money to buy what you like when you grow up, if you take no pains to obtain knowledge when you are young?

     HARRY. A curious question indeed!—What you really with all your sagacity suppose then, that I shall be obliged to take to a trade when I grow up? An excellent notion, that? No! good Mr. George, my father is a Baronet, Sir, a man of great fortune, and I am his only son; I shall have no occasion to learn any thing for the sake of getting money, when I grow up, I assure you. I shall not want knowledge for that; I shall have a great estate.

     GEORGE. Perhaps, though, it might be worth your while to try for some knowledge to teach you how to keep it; for I have read stories of people, and my mother has heard of, indeed known people, who were once very rich, but being also very idle, they have thrown away their fortunes, only because they did not know how to pass their time; and when their

money


25

 money was gone, they found themselves useless beings in the world, and perhaps obliged to become dependant of those very persons who had art and cunning enough to cheat them out of their property.

     HARRY. Really now Talbot, when I met you last summer, you seemed to me to be any thing rather than a formal fellow, with such queer shopkeeping notions—No, I shall not be idle, I fancy, tho' I don't intend to fag, like a tradesman, or grub like a parson at Greek and Hebrew books, which are of no use to a gentleman. When I am Sir Harry Scamperville, the first thing I shall do will be to have the best stud in the country. I'll have a curricle too, and a tandem with blood horses; and I'll have, Sir, such a pack of fox-hounds;—hoicks, hoicks, my knowing ones; I'll show them what it is to have right notions of all that sort of thing—Germain says, I shall be quite the very thing, the tippy.

     GEORGE. Pray, who is Germain?

HARRY.


25

     HARRY. Germain! Why he is a sort of upper servant, that is, a sort of gentleman, that my father keeps to go about with me. He was abroad with him. He is a German, a monstrous good fellow, tho' a great quiz; it's high fun to see him on horseback, for he can't ride at all, tho' he won't own to it. You would die with laughing to see the faces he makes; he is so afraid: but he has had some tumbles, which almost killed me, I laughed so. I always get him upon a spunkey horse, and the fun is to see his contrivances to stick fast, while I dash on, on purpose.

     GEORGE. He don't seem to recommend all these horses, and hunting schemes, then, to gratify himself?

     HARRY. Oh lord! no, not at all! 'tis only because he wishes that I should make a figure, and all that—as a man in certain style ought to do. But there is Jasper Grice, the groom, that overlooks Sir Harry's stables; 'tis he that has made me so well acquainted with all that

sort


27

 sort of thing; he's the boldest rider you know in the country. He taught me to ride, and to fear nothing when I'm in the saddle. You seem to have no notion of that sort of thing; I wish I could get you into the field; you'd soon see what it is to have spirit and courage—'gad, I go over every thing, as bold as a dragon. Why, now, if I was on horseback on my filly Truffle, and the dogs were to take water, you see, in this part of the river, or any where, ever so dangerous, why I should no more mind plunging in directly, than I should——

     [A boy comes running up.

     BOY. Masters, young Masters! pray help!—help, for God's sake—my poor little sister—she has fell'd into the river—Oh! for certain she'll be drowned, and what will mother say?—What shall I do?

     GEORGE. Show me the place directly, come Harry, let us run—come, come!

     HARRY. Run—no indeed—I shall do no

such


28

 such thing—Why, George—George—what is it to you?—Don't go—You'll be pulled into the water—He's gone—a stupid fellow; to hazard his life for a beggar's brat. I've no notion of that sort of thing—the fool will be drowned, I dare say; I'll go call for somebody, to help fish him out—I'm sure he'll be drowned.

     (Mrs. Talbot being abruptly informed of what had happened, comes up in alarm; but the child has been taken out of the water by her son, and is seated on the lap of its mother.)

     THE POOR WOMAN. See, Madam—good Madam, blessings and good luck on Master George!—he has saved my little Nanny—look, Ma'am, she's quite come to.—God reward you, Master George!—If it had not been for him, Nanny would have been drowned.

     MRS. TALBOT. Indeed I am very glad.—Poor child!—I am rejoiced to see her alive.—And you, my son, I delight in

your


29

 your courage and your safety. I was alarmed, for Mr. Scamperville ran to tell me he believed you were drowned—But the danger is now over. Go home and change your clothes.

     GEORGE. I am mad with Scamperville for frightening you so—he had better have helped, instead of running away.—Oh there he is coming back, much at his leisure.

     HARRY. So you aren't gone to the bottom, I see. I was frightened for you, I assure you.

     GEORGE. So it seems, indeed. You were frightened—and so you ran away.

     HARRY. Ran away!—No, I went to call help.

     GEORGE. You had better have helped me yourself if you thought I needed it, such a fine bold fellow as you are.

     HARRY. Where would have been the use of that? Two of us could have done no good, so I thought to have called for some men to come and assist the little child.

MRS.


30

     MRS. TALBOT. But if George had been equally prudent, and had taken so much care of himself, it would have been too late, and probably at least the little girl would have been drowned.

     HARRY. And if it had, who could have helped it—those people should take more care of their children.—I wonder if they expect Gentlemen to be hazarding their lives for such brats as that.

     MRS. TALBOT. Do you think, Mr. Scamperville, you should have been more alert, if the child of a person whom you consider as being of fashion had met with the same disaster.

     HARRY. Oh! that is not likely, you know—but these common people should be punished, I think, for annoying one with such things.

     MRS. TALBOT. You have notions admirably calculated for the promotion of your own ease, but not quite such as will recommend you much to the affection of others.

GEORGE.


31

     GEORGE. Did you never hear of doing as you would be done by—suppose you had fallen into the water, and this child's brother or father had saved you from drowning?

     HARRY. Well—they would have been handsomely paid, and it would have been a good job for them.

     MRS. TALBOT. But let us suppose for a moment, that instead of being the only son of Sir Harry Scamperville, you had been the son of John Needwood the labourer; would it therefore have been well in those who might witness the accident, to leave you to be drowned; and is not the life of a prince or a peasant equal in the estimation of God, who created both with the same feelings and wants, and are human creatures only to be considered as such, when they happen to be rich?

     HARRY. Yes, Ma'am—I dare say they are—but really I never desire, when I come out just to visit a friend, to be bored with such sort of things—I wish

you


32

 you a good evening—I shall not like to give up my rowing plan down the river—I dare say Germain is waiting for me by this time—George, have you a mind for a little dash?

     GEORGE. Thank you—but I have not the least wish for it.

     HARRY. Well! good bye to you then.

     GEORGE. Farewell.

     MRS. TALBOT. There he goes, the echo of insolent wealth and unfeeling prosperity—totally without any sense of what he owes to others, and occupied only in gratifying himself.

     GEORGE. I am sure I shall not seek him again; and I heartily hope he will not seek me.

     MRS. TALBOT. But as we walk, which in your wet clothes must not be slowly, tell me how it happened.

     GEORGE. Scamperville was boasting about his courage in hunting, and describing how he would fearlessly ford the river on

his


33

 his fine mare, Miss Something, as he called her, when Needwood's son came running up, and said his little sister had fallen into the water. I ran to the place, and Mr. Scamperville, after desiring me not to go, went away as fast as he could to get more help.

     MRS. TALBOT. And was the water deep?

     GEORGE. No, indeed, mother, the hazard was nothing:—the little child was so near the edge, that I had not occasion to swim above two strokes, and I easily brought her out.

     MRS. TALBOT. I will confess, George, my pleasure is great on this occasion, though chastened by the remains of the fears I felt.—You are now sensible of the advantage of having been educated hitherto, in some measure, in the manner directed by the admirable author of Les Etudes de la Nature—"J'entremelerios ces speculations touchanted, d'exercise agreeable, et converable à la fougue de

"leur


34

 âge. Je leur ferois apprendre à nager, non pas seulement pour les apprendre de se tirer eux même du peril; mais, pour porter du secours à ceux qui peuvent se trouver en danger."

Translation.

     "I would interpose with these interesting speculations, exercise suitable to the vivacity natural at that period of life—I would have them taught to swim, not only that they may be enabled to extricate themselves from danger, but that they may succour others whose peril may call upon their humanity."

     I congratulate myself that you can distinguish between that useless headlong rashness, which often hurries a young person into danger in a fit of boasting, and that real courage, which does not shrink from any peril which duty to a fellow creature calls upon him to brave; and if the danger in this instance had been greater, if I had even been deprived of

you


35

 you in consequence of your humainty, I should, with whatever anguish in my heart, have felt like the illustrious Ormond, who, when he lost the support and consolation of his age, declared that he "would not exchange his dead son, for any living son in christendom."

     But now we are arrived, go change your clothes—I shall say nothing to Emily this evening of what has happened, as she was not with me when that stout-hearted Scamperville came staring up to me, and knew nothing of the matter.—My spirits want to be quieted, and I would avoid her questions at present.

     EMILY. Dear Mamma, where have you been?—When I returned with the piece of matting you sent me for to tie up the convolvulus, I could not find you, and I have been seeking you ever since.

     MRS. TALBOT. Well, now I am found; but I am rather fatigued, so come and read to me.

EMILY.


36

     EMILY. Shall I read the history of the bee, which we were going to begin yesterday?

     MRS. TALBOT. Only the abridgement, introductory to the little poem; we shall have time for no more.

     EMILY. Apis mellifica, the common honey bee, is an insect of important use to mankind.—An hive contains from 16,000 to 20,000 bees, of which one only is a female; of the rest, some are drones, but the greater part of them are working bees.—On which last, the care of the young depend, as well as the making of honey, which they collect from almost every flower, while by a different process, they form the wax of the pollen of flowers, and build their hexagon cells so regularly and neatly, that human art cannot imitate them.—The eggs of the queen, or the only female bee, are laid in these, and each is then filled with honey—they have the art of extracting the nectar from almost all plants, even those which to us appear

to


37

 to have but little odour. The blossoms of the heath, of thyme, of rosemary, and those of fruit trees, and aromatic herbs, are particularly grateful to them.

     MRS. TALBOT. It was on the thyme in the kitchen garden, you remarked, I remember, my Emily, when you were a very little girl, that the bees were honeying.

     EMILY. I always liked to watch them at their work, it seemed so clever in such little creatures to build those regular cells, and fill them with sweet juice.

     MRS. TALBOT. And you recollect my explanation of the expression I use in the verses, alchemy.

     EMILY. Yes, you told me alchemy was a process of chymistry, by which it was long believed inferior metals, such as copper or iron, might be converted or transmuted into gold; and that you applied it in a figurative sense, to describe the change made by the bees, of other substances, into honey.

MRS.


38

     MRS. TALBOT. There are many other sorts of bees, you know; and there are other insects, such as wasps and hornets, that resemble them in living societies, making very ingeniously the nests where they raise their young; but in elegance of taste, and delicacy of manner, these are very inferior. The live on fruit, meat, and even on other insects.—The author who writes under the name of Hector St. John, an American farmer, relates, that in America, it is very common to suspend an hornet's nest in the middle of the ceiling of a room where the family live, that these insects may relieve them from the great number of flies with which the houses are infested, and that it is usual for the hornets to settle on the faces of the children, with no other intention than to carry away the flies; while the children accustomed to them express no fear, and never are stung. These hornets, and their near relations, the wasps, are great enemies of the bees, not only by stealing their honey,

but


39

 but because they kill the industrious labourers themselves. In the vast woods of America there are wild bees, that make great quantities of honey in the hollows of trees, and the settlers and Indians are guided to these treasures by a bird, who knows where they are deposited.—There are many other particulars, which at some future time we will collect. At present our business is with the honey bee of our own country.

INVITATION TO THE BEE.

CHILD of patient industry,
Little active busy bee,
Thou art out at early morn,
Just as the opening flowers are born,
Among the green and grassy meads
Where the cowslips hang their heads;
Or by hedge-rows, while the dew
Glitters on the harebell blue.—

Then on eager wing art flown,
To thymy hillocks on the down;
Or


40

Or to revel in the broom;
Or such the clover's crimson bloom;
Murmuring still thou busy bee
Thy little ode to industry!

Go while summer suns are bright,
Take at large thy wandering flight;
Go and load thy tiny feet
With every rich and various sweet,
Cling around the flowring thorn,
Dive in woodbine's honied horn,
Seek the wild rose that shades the dell,
Explore the foxglove's freckled bell,
Or in the heath flower's fairy cup
Drink the fragrant spirit up.

But when the meadows shall be mown,
And summer's garlands overblown;
Then come thou little busy bee,
And let thy homestead be with me,
There, shelter'd by thy straw-built hive,
In my garden thou shalt live,
And that garden shall supply
Thy delicious alchemy;
There for thee, in autumn, blows
The Indian pink and latest rose,
The mignionette perfumes the air,
And stocks, unfading flowers are there,
Yet


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Yet fear not when tempest come,
And drive thee to thy waxen home,
That I shall then most treacherously
For thy honey murder thee.

Ah, no!—throughout the winter drear
I'll feed thee, that another year
Thou may'st renew thy industry
Among the flowers, thou little busy bee.


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