Donald Grant Mitchell （b. 1822,-）. This popular American writer was born in Norwich,Conn. He graduated at Yale in 1841. In 1844 he went tEngland,and,after traveling through that country on foot,spent some time on the continent. His first volume,"Fresh Gleanings,or a New Sheaf from the Old Fields of Continental Europe,by Ik Marvel," was published in 1847,soon after his return home. He revisited Europe in 1848. On his return,he published "The Battle Summer." Mr. Mitchell has contributed tthe "Knickerbocker Magazine," the "Atlantic Monthly," and several agricultural journals. His most popular works are "The Reveries of a Bachelor," 1850,and "Dream Life," 1851. Besides these,he has written "My Farm of Edgewood," "Wet Days at Edgewood," "Doctor Johns," a novel "Rural Studies," and other works. He is a charming writer. In 1853 he was appointed United States consul at Venice. In 1855 he settled on a farm near New Haven,Conn.where he now resides. The following selection is from "Dream Life."
1.Little does the boy know,as the tide of years drifts by,floating him out insensibly from the harbor of his home,upon the great sea of life,-what joys,what opportunities,what affections,are slipping from him intthe shades of that inexorable1 Past,where nman can go,save on the wings of his dreams.
2.Little does he think,as he leans upon the lap of his mother,with his eye turned ther,in some earnest pleading for a fancied pleasure of the hour,or in some important story of his griefs,that such sharing of his sorrows,and such sympathy with his wishes,he will find nowhere again.
3.Little does he imagine that the fond sister Nelly,ever thoughtful1 Inexorable,not tbe changed.
of his pleasures,ever smiling away his griefs,will soon be beyond the reach of either;and that the waves of the years which come rocking sgently under him will soon toss her far away,upon the great swell of life.
4.But now,you are there. The fire light glimmers upon the walls of your cherished home. The big chair of your father is drawn tits wonted1 corner by the chimney side;his head,just touched with gray,lies back upon its oaken top. Opposite sits your mother: her figure is thin,her look cheerful,yet subdued;-her arm perhaps resting on your shoulder,as she talks tyou in tones of tender admonition2,of the days that are tcome.
5.The cat is purring on the hearth;the clock that ticked splainly when Charlie died is ticking on the mantel still. The great table in the middle of the room,with its books and work,waits only for the lighting of the evening lamp,tsee a return tits stores of embroidery and of story.
6.Upon a little stand under the mirror,which catches now and then a flicker of the fire light,and makes it play,as if in wanton,upon the ceiling,lies that big book,reverenced of your New England parents-the Family Bible. It is a ponderous3,square volume,with heavy silver clasps,that you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint4,old pictures,for a study of those prettily bordered pages,which lie between the Testaments,and which hold the Family Record.
7.There are the Births;-your father‘s and your mother’s;it seems as if they were born a long time ago;and even your own date of birth appears an almost incredible5 distance back. Then there are the Marriages;-only one as yet;and your mother‘s name looks1Wonted,accustomed.
2Admonition （pro. admonishun）,counseling against fault or error. 3 Ponderous,very heavy.4 Quaint （pro. kwant）,odd and antique. 5Incredible,impossible tbe believed.oddly tyou: it is hard tthink of her as anyone else than your doting 1parent.
8.Last of all come the Deaths;-only one. Poor Charlie! How it looks!-" Died,12 September,18-,Charles Henry,aged four years." You know just how it looks. You have turned tit often;there you seem tbe joined thim,though only by the turning of a leaf.
9.And over your thoughts,as you look at that page of the Record,there sometimes wanders a vague2,shadowy fear,which will come,- that your own name may soon be there. You try tdrop the notion,as if it were not fairly your own;you affect tslight it,as you would slight a boy whpresumed3on your acquaintance,but whom you have ndesire tknow.
10.Yet your mother-how strange it is!-has nfears of such dark fancies. Even now,as you stand beside her,and as the twilight deepens in the room,her low,silvery voice is stealing upon your ear,telling you that she can not be long with you;-that the time is coming,when you must be guided by your own judgment,and struggle with the world unaided by the friends of your boyhood.
11.There is a little pride,and a great deal more of anxiety,in your thoughts now,as you look steadfastly intthe home blaze,while those delicate fingers,stender of your happiness,play with the locks upon your brow. Tstruggle with the world,-that is a proud thing;tstruggle alone,-there lies the doubt! Then crowds in swift upon the calm of boyhood the first anxious thought of youth.
12.The hands of the old clock upon the mantel that ticked off the hours when Charlie sighed and when Charlie died,draw on toward midnight. The shadows that the fireflame makes grow dimmer and dimmer. And thus it is,that Home,-boy home,passes away forever,-like the swaying of a pendulum,-like the fading of a shadow on the floor.1Doting,loving texcess.2Vague （pro. vag）,indefinite.3Presumed,pushed upon or intruded in an impudent manner.
