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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862   By:

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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862 is a captivating collection of essays, stories, and poetry that offers a fascinating look at the issues and events of the time. With a diverse range of authors contributing to this edition, readers are treated to a variety of perspectives and writing styles that make for a rich and engaging read.

The topics covered in this issue range from political commentary to personal reflections, providing readers with a well-rounded view of the world in 1862. The pieces are thought-provoking and well-written, making it easy to get lost in the pages of this volume.

One standout feature of this edition is the powerful poetry that is included. The poems are beautifully crafted and convey a sense of emotion and depth that is sure to resonate with readers. They offer a unique glimpse into the feelings and experiences of the time, adding an extra layer of complexity to the overall collection.

Overall, The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862 is a must-read for anyone interested in history, literature, or simply looking for an engaging read. With its diverse range of content and high-quality writing, this edition is sure to leave a lasting impression on readers and inspire further exploration of the time period it represents.

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In Cuba there is a blossoming shrub whose multitudinous crimson flowers are so seductive to the humming birds that they hover all day around it, buried in its blossoms until petal and wing seem one. At first upright, the gorgeous bells droop downward, and fall unwithered to the ground, and are thence called by the Creoles "Cupid's Tears." Frederika Bremer relates that daily she brought home handfuls of these blossoms to her chamber, and nightly they all disappeared. One morning she looked toward the wall of the apartment, and there, in a long crimson line, the delicate flowers went ascending one by one to the ceiling, and passed from sight. She found that each was borne laboriously onward by a little colorless ant much smaller than itself: the bearer was invisible, but the lovely burdens festooned the wall with beauty.

To a watcher from the sky, the march of the flowers of any zone across the year would seem as beautiful as that West Indian pageant. These frail creatures, rooted where they stand, a part of the "still life" of Nature, yet share her ceaseless motion. In the most sultry silence of summer noons, the vital current is coursing with desperate speed through the innumerable veins of every leaflet; and the apparent stillness, like the sleeping of a child's top, is in truth the very ecstasy of perfected motion... Continue reading book >>

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