Over the face of happy nature creeps a glow that seems to come from the heart, and to make her look up, rejoicing, to the sun as part of herself, and yet a type of the Great Creator.
But whilst this Sabbath morning hymn thus rises, betimes, to the throne of Him who sits beyond the sunbeams, tired man sleeps on.

The farmer's household is still slumbering, and after a week of hard labour, taking an additional hour's repose on that day which was graciously appointed as a day of rest.

Scarcely can the sun peep in through the drawn curtains and shutters of the windows, and no song of birds, or low of cows, seems as yet to have reached the closed ears of the sleepers.
Master and men alike obtain the bounteous gift of sleep so often denied to the less laborious rich.
We are wrong in supposing that all are slumbering in the farm-house.
Quietly the mistress steps out of the back door which she has noiselessly opened, as if afraid of disturbing her household.

As the brisk little figure moves across the farm-yard, it is instantly surrounded by a flock of poultry that seem intuitively to expect an alms at her hand, as do the poor Irish who haunt her dwelling.

But she has nothing to give them thus early in the morning, and scarcely heeds their cackling and crowing.