execution, the sentiments which had been outraged in her heart, glowed with new force, and she obstinately refused to permit the destruction of that witness and companion of her labors. One day, however, when the revocation of the permission had lost all its prestige, the blows of the hatchet upon the venerable trunk of the tree, and the rustling of the leaves shaken by the shock, the last sighs of the victim, were heard through the house. It was a sad, sad moment, a scene of mourning and repentance. The blows of the fig-slaying hatchet[1] also shook the heart of my mother; the tears rushed to her eyes, as the sap of the tree to the wound, and her sobs responded to the trembling of the leaves. Every new blow brought a new burst of grief, and my sister and I, repenting too late for having given such acute pain, burst into weeping, the only reparation now possible. The suspension of the work of destruction was ordered, as the family prepared to rush into the yard, and put a stop to the painful re-percussions of the hatchet upon my mother's heart. Two hours afterwards, the fig-tree lay prostrate upon the ground, displaying its hoary head as the fading leaves showed the knotty frame-work of that structure, which for so many years had lent its aid to the protection and sustenance of the family. "After these great reforms, the humble habitation went on slowly and painfully enlarging itself. It fell to me to have the happiness of introducing one substantial change. On the border of our little homestead spot was a piece of ground my father had purchased in a moment of comparative ease. I was an apprentice in a small commercial establishment when sixteen years old. My first plans and economies had for their object the fencing in of this lot of territory, that it might be made productive to the family, and place it beyond the reach of indigence, although it
- ↑ The Spanish word is higuericida, the fig-i-cidal.
