Page:Lippincotts Monthly Magazine-34.djvu/198

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196
A STUDY.
[Aug.

"no; you said last week, when you first called me in, that her name was Miriam."

"Sarah," was the imperturbable answer.

Not caring to dispute the point, my friend wrote his prescription and departed. It was not until afterward that he was made aware that in cases of serious illness the Jews rename the patient. "You see," say they, "when God sends out the Angel of Death, he will instruct him to call for the soul of Miriam. But when the angel arrives he will find not Miriam, but Sarah. Therefore, having received no commands respecting the soul of Sarah, he will return whence he came, and leave us our child."

On a similar principle, they frequently sell the sick person for a nominal sum. "The Almighty," they argue, "desires to punish us by taking from us our most precious possession. But, if the invalid is no longer ours, he cannot take from us what is not our own." Ingenious reasoning, to say the least of it.

But it is time to take leave of these Courlanders. What will be their condition under the new order of things it is difficult to conjecture. That the prestige of the noble class is declining, cannot be denied. The literaten themselves are being overtaken by the Letts, many of whom, after a course of study at Dorpat, now occupy the position of pastors and doctors. Old barriers are being broken down. Russification is being enforced more strictly year by year. Lutheranism, as the established form of religion in the Baltic provinces, is being threatened. The idol of the people has been snatched away, and his successor is of a very different stamp. Time alone can solve the dismal problem; and in the mean while, in memory of the many kindnesses received, and of the numerous social pleasures dotted about the space of my two years' residence, I would fain record my humble wishes for the ultimate peace and prosperity of the province of Courland.

Sarah M. L. Pereira.



A STUDY.

A low red farm-house, half-way down a slope
Gay with pink clover set in riotous grass,—
Here—on her knees a half-twined daisy rope—
A shy child glances up to see you pass.

Beyond the nook where she sits, nested low,
A meadow, daisy-sprinkled, stretches far:
Across it what sweet wind-waves come and go!
Beyond it what dark depths of woodland are,

Fringed on this nearest side by alder boughs.
Whose sweet white blossoming toss is like sea-foam!
Here hath my Lady Wren her dainty house,—
Fairer than lace-hung palace her small home.

The place is full of secrets. Hist! the voice
Of whispering waters, stealing green and cool
'Twixt curtaining trees: there is no other noise,
Save a low murmur from yon half-hid pool.

Howard Glyndon.