Spring came again, and deepened slowly towards the summer. Leaves budded on the trees, herbs sprouted from the warm earth, and birds sang in all the hedges.

“I am so glad!” said Nelly; “for I love the spring sunshine, and all the pleasant things that come with it.”

When the weather grew mild, Nelly was as good as her word about raising chickens for the benefit of Comfort’s nephew, the little slave. The eggs of the favorite hen were carefully put aside to accumulate, and as soon as she had done laying, and went about the barnyard clucking, with her feathers ruffled and her wings drooping, Nelly knew, with joy, that it was time to set her. So she filled the same nest in which the eggs had been laid, with clean, fresh straw, and placed them in it, ready for the bantam when Martin could catch her to put her on. They found that the hen needed no coaxing, but settled herself at once in the well-filled nest, giving at the same time an occasional cluck of high satisfaction. In three weeks from that time she came off with eleven chicks,—all safe and well. When she was put in her coop, under the big apple-tree by the fence, Nelly fed her with moistened Indian meal, every day. She thought it a pretty sight, when biddy minced up the food for her babies, and taught them how to drink out of the flower-pot saucer of water that stood within her reach.Nelly seemed never to get tired of looking at her little snow-white pets. She felt that they were her own, and therefore she took a double interest in them.

When she was home from school, and lessons were studied for the next morning, she would go out to the apple-tree, and sit on the clean grass an hour or two, to watch every movement of the brood, and the solicitude of the caged mother when her offspring wandered too far away. One day in particular, as she sat there, the child’s thoughts were busy with the future; her imagination pictured the time when full-grown, and more beautiful than any others, as she thought they were sure to become, her eleven chickens were to be sent to market.

“I hope,” she said half aloud; “I hope they will bring a good price, for Comfort’s sake; I should not like to offer her anything less than five dollars. That is very little, I think, compared to all the trouble I have had night and morning to feed and take care of them.”

She stopped a moment, and heaved a deep sigh, as she saw the little yellow dots flit back and forth through the long grass, some of them running now and then to nestle lovingly under the wings of the mother.

“Oh dear!” she went on; “I do believe I am getting to love my hen and chickens too much to part with them; every day I think more and more of them, and all the while they grow prettier and sweeter and tamer. I wish I could keep them and have the money too! Dear little chickies! Oh, Comfort, Comfort!”

She pronounced the last two words so ruefully, that her mother, who was passing along the garden-path, near the apple-tree, called out,—

“Well, Nelly dear, what is the matter with your precious Comfort, eh? Has she met any great misfortune?”

"No, ma’am," said Nelly; “I was only talking to myself about how hard it would be to sell the little chickens, even for dear Comfort’s sake, when I love them so.”

Mrs. Brooks drew near.

“Well, my child, that is a dilemma I have not thought of before. Perhaps, who knows, something will turn up to keep your darlings nearer home. When autumn comes, if I feel desperately in want of bantams, I may purchase your brood myself,—but I will not promise about it. In the meantime, don’t get to loving them too much; and remember, that if you told Comfort you would give her the money, you must keep your word.”

“Yes,” said Nell, with another sigh; “there is just my trouble; I want to be honorable to Comfort, and kind to myself too.”

Mrs. Brooks passed on. She went into a little vegetable garden beyond, found what she wanted, and came back.

She paused again, and with the little girl, looked at the chickens.

“Nelly,” she said, “it has just struck me that you have been a great deal in the kitchen with Comfort, lately, of evenings. Now, though I respect and love Comfort for many things, I want you to stay more with your father, and Martin, and myself, in the sitting-room.”

“What?” Nelly cried, in innocent wonder; “isn’t Comfort good any longer?”

Mrs. Brooks smiled.

“Yes, dear, Comfort’s as good as ever. She tries to do her duty, and is a faithful old creature. She has many excellent qualities, but she is not educated nor refined, as I hope one day you will be. You are too young to be exposed to her influence constantly, proper as it may be in most respects. I want you to fill a different rank in life from Comfort’s, Nelly.”

Tears were in Nelly’s eyes as she answered gravely, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Comfort is a servant, and you are my little daughter. I want you to be diligent, and cultivate a love of books. If you grow up in ignorance, you can never be esteemed a lady, even if you were as rich as an empress. I will give you the credit to say that you have improved very much since you have been with me, both in your conduct and in the language you use.”

“Comfort told me I mustn’t say ‘br’iling fish,’ as she did, because you did not! That was kind of her, wasn’t it?”

Mrs. Brooks felt her eyes moisten at this unexpected remark, more, perhaps, at the tone than at the words themselves. She saw that Nelly was deeply attached to Comfort, and she felt almost that she was wrong in seeking to withdraw the child from the grotesque attraction she had lately seemed to feel for her society. But duty was duty, and she was firm.

She stooped and imprinted a light kiss on Nelly’s cheek.

“Yes,” she said, “Comfort is very kind to you. But I do not wish you to spend more time with her when you are out of school than you do with the rest of the family. Remember not to hurt her feelings by repeating to her this conversation.”

"Yes, ma’am," said Nelly; and then she added, “Comfort was going to show me how to write poetry, to-night, when she got through with her work. Couldn’t I go in the kitchen for this one evening?”

“Comfort—teach—poetry?” echoed Mrs. Brooks, with some dismay and amusement.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well,—yes,—you may stay in the kitchen, if you like, for this once. Certainly, I have no objection to your learning to write poetry,” and she walked away, laughing quietly.

Surely enough, when night fell, and Comfort, radiant in a showy, new, red cotton turban, sat down to her knitting,—her day’s work over, everything in its place, and the kitchen-floor white with extreme cleanliness,—Nell came skipping into the room, pencil and paper in hand.

“You see,” she said, as she arranged her writing materials on the table, and drew the solitary tallow candle towards her; “you see, Comfort, school breaks up next week, and the spring vacation begins. It lasts a month, only think of it! Will not I have good times, eh? Johnny Bixby,—you know Johnny Bixby, Comfort? well, he goes to his home in the city as soon as vacation commences, and as we may not see him again, he wants each of the little girls to write him some poetry so that he can remember us by it; and that’s the way I come to want to learn how.”

“Oh,” said Comfort, “I understand now. Johnny boards with those ar Harrowses, eh?”

“Yes,” said Nell; “and he’s such a very quiet boy, you’ve no idea, Comfort.”

"He’s the fust quiet boy ever I heerd on, then," said Comfort. “Weel, what do you want to say to Johnny in your poetry? That’s the first and important p’int; don’t begin to write till you finds what you are a goin’ to say.”

"Oh, I want to tell him good-bye, and all that sort of thing, Comfort, and how I hope we will meet again. I’ve got the first line all written; that’s some help isn’t it? Melindy’s and my first lines are just alike, ’cause we made it up between us."

“How does it go?” asked Comfort, puffing at her pipe.

“This way,” said Nelly, taking up her paper and reading:

“Our days of youth will soon be o’er.”

“Well,” said Comfort, after a moment’s reflection, “I think that’s very good. Now you must find something to rhyme with that ar word ‘o’er.’”

Nelly bent over her papers, and seemed to be considering very hard indeed. Once she put forth her hand as if she were going to write, but drew it back again. Evidently she found writing poetry very difficult work. Comfort was looking at her, too, and that made her nervous, and even the solemn stare of the cat, Nancy, from the hearth, where she sat purring, added to her embarrassment.

“Oh, Comfort,” she said, at last, with a deep sigh; “I can’t! I wonder if Johnny Bixby would take as much trouble as this for me. Do tell me what rhymes with ‘o’er,’ Comfort!”

"‘O’er,’ ‘o’er,’" repeated Comfort, slowly; “why, tore, gnaw, boar, roar, and such like. Roar is very good.”

"But I don’t want ‘roar’ in poetry, Comfort," said Nelly, considerably ruffled. “I don’t see how you can bring ‘roar’ in. I wonder if ‘more’ would not do.”

She took up her pencil, and in a little while, with beaming eyes, read to her listener these lines:

“Our days of youth will soon be o’er,
In Harrows’ school we’ll meet no more.”

“That’s pretty fair, isn’t it, Comfort?”

"’Pears like," was the answer that came from a cloud of smoke on the other side of the room. “I’m sorry the ‘roar’ couldn’t come in, though. Don’t disremember to say something nice about his writin’ to tell yer if he gits safe home, and so, and so.”

“No,” said Nell; "I’ll not"—“forget” she meant to have added, but just then came a heavy knock on the kitchen-door that made both of them start.

Comfort opened it, and there stood a boy, nearly a man, in the dress of a sailor. His hair was long and shaggy, his face was brown, and over his shoulder swung a small bundle on a stick.

He was not, however, as rough as he looked, for he took off his hat and said in a pleasant voice,

“Can you tell me where a widow by the name of Harrow lives in this neighborhood? I was directed this way, I think.”

“Over yonder is the house,” said Comfort, pointing out into the night. “And the next time yer come, be keerful not to thump so hard. We are not used to it in this ’ere part of the country.”

Nelly heard the young man laugh as he walked down the path from the house; and something in the sound brought Miss Milly to her mind. The more she thought of it, the more certain she became that the young man’s voice was like her teacher’s. She sat still a little while, thinking, and idly scratching her pencil back and forth. At length she said, quite forgetful of her writing,

“Comfort, didn’t Mrs. Harrow’s son run away to sea, ever so long ago?”

This question, simple as it was, seemed to fill Comfort with sudden knowledge. She clapped her hands together joyfully.

“My stars! ef that don’t beat all! I do b’lieve Sidney Harrow is come back again!”

She went to the door to look after him, but his figure had long since vanished down the path. The gloom of night reigned, undisturbed, without. There was no sailor-boy to be seen. “My stars!” said Comfort, again and again; “ef that was only Miss Milly’s brother come back to help keer for the family, instead of runnin’ off like a bad ongrateful feller, as he was, I’ll be glad for one.”

"And I’ll be glad too," cried Nelly; “and then dear Miss Elinor need not teach, but can read books all day, if she likes, and be happy. Oh, kitty, kitty! will not that be nice?” and in the delight of her heart, the little girl caught up the cat from the hearth, and began to caress her in a joyful manner, that the sober puss must have considered rather indecorous, for she sat still in her lap, looking as grave as a judge, and never winked or purred once at her young mistress.

Here the clock struck nine. “Dear, dear!” said Nelly; “and I haven’t finished my poetry yet! and very soon I must go to bed.” Back she went with renewed vigor. “What were you saying, Comfort, when that young man knocked? Oh, I know,—to tell Johnny to write to me; I remember now. Don’t you think it will seem strange to Johnny to be with his mother all the time, instead of sending her letters from school? eh, Comfort?”

But the old woman was lost in her thoughts and her smoking, and did not reply. Nelly bent over her paper, read, and re-read the two lines already accomplished, and after musing in some perplexity what should come next, asked,

“Comfort, what rhymes with B?”

"Stingin’ bee, Nell?" “No, the letter B.”

"Oh, that’s it, is it? Well, let me think. I haven’t made poetry this ever so long. There’s ‘ragin’ sea,’—how’s that?" said Comfort, beginning to show symptoms of getting deeply interested. “Now take to ’flectin’ on that ar, Nell.”

Nell did reflect some time, but to no purpose. Some way she could not fit in Comfort’s “ragin’ sea.” It was no use, it would not go! She wrote and erased, and erased and wrote, for a full quarter of an hour. After much anxious labor, she produced finally this verse, and bidding Comfort listen, read it aloud, in a very happy, triumphant way. Then she copied it neatly on a piece of paper, in a large, uneven, childish handwriting, which she had only lately acquired. It was now ready to be presented on the morrow.

TO JOHNNY BIXBY.