When my husband comes home wearied and disgusted with Wall-street,
it refreshes his body and soul to look into our "_hanging garden_," and
note new beauties the day has developed. I trust the time and affection
we thus spend are not wasted, for I believe the sentiment of Coleridge's
lines--
'He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'
But there is one circumstance that makes this garden precious, which I
have yet to tell you, and you will agree with me that it is the best
part of it. When we were married, my husband was in the habit of
drinking a glass of beer daily. I did not approve of it, and used to
fancy he was apathetic and less agreeable afterwards; but as he was so
fond of it, I made up my mind not to disagree upon the subject. Last
spring, when we wished some flowers, we hesitated on account of the
expense, for we endeavor to be economical, as all young married people
should. Then my husband very nobly said that though one glass of beer
cost but little, a week's beer amounted to considerable, and he would
discontinue the habit, and appropriate the old beer expenditure upon
flowers. He has faithfully kept his proposal, and often as we sit by our
window, he points to the blooming balcony, saying, 'There is my summer's
beer.' The consequence of this sacrifice is that I am a grateful and
contented wife; and I do assure you (I being judge) that since beer is
turned into flowers, my husband is the most agreeable of mankind.
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