Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1846-01-01

the father had not heard for many months. Won
derfully the little creature touched the keys with
her fingers, and ever and anon her weak but
flexible voice chimed in with a pleasan4 harmony.
Alessandro raised his head, and looked and
listened, God bless her dear little soul 7 he
exclaimed 'can she play it? God bless herP
He clasped the darling to his breast and kissed
her again and again. Then seeifg the little
overturned chair, once so sacred to his heart, he
caught it up, kissed it yehemently, aai burst in
to a food oftears, Dora threw hF arms round
him, and said softly, Dear Alessandro, forgive
me that | spoke SO unkindly.' He pressed her
hand, and answered in a stilled voice, Forgive
me Dora. God bless the little angel! Never a.
gain will father push away her little chair As
they stand weeping on each others neck's two
little soft arms %encircle their knees, and a small
voice says, kiss Fietta.' They raise her up, and
fold her in long embraces. Alessandro carries
her to bed. as n'times of old, and says cheerful
ly, mo more wine dear Dora; no more wine,
Our child has saved me-
But when discord once enters a domestic par
adise, it is not easily %dispelled. Alessandro oc-
casionally feels the want of the stimulus to which
he has become accustomed, and the corroding
appetite sometimes makes him gloomy and petu-
liant.
Dora does not. make sufficient allowance for
this, and her own nature being quick End sensi-
tive, she sometimes gives abrupt answers, or be-
trays Impotence by hasty motions. Meanwhile
Alessandro is busy, with some secret work. The
door Of lis room is often locked, and Dora is half
dispIeascd that he will not tell her why but all
her questions he answers only with a kiss and a
smile. And now the Christmas morning comes,
and Fioretta rises bright and early, to see what
Santa Claus has put in her stocking, She comes
running with her apron full, and gives mother a
package, on which is written, A merry Christ
mas, and a Happy New Year to my beloved wife
She opcnes it, and reads, Dearest Dora, | have
made thee a music box. When | speak hastily
to my loved ones, [ pray thee wind it up; and
when I see the spark kindIing in thy eyes, | will
do the Thus, dearest, let memory teach
patience unto love. Dora winds M the music
box, and 10, a spirit sits within, playing the be-
loved tune! She puts her hand within her hus-
bands, and they look at each othei with afec-
%tionate humility. But neither Of tbim speak the
resolution they form, while the voice of their
early love falls on their ears, like the sounds of a
fairy guitar.
Memory thus aided, does teach patience unto
love. No slackened string now sends discord
through the domestic tune. Fiorctta is passing
into motherhood, beautiful as an opeaing flower.
She practices on the guitar, while the dear good
father sits with his arm across her chair, singing
from a manuscript tune of her own composing.
In his eyes, this first effort of her genius cannot
seem otherwise than beautiful, Ever and anon
certain notes recur, and they look at each other
and smile, and Dora smiles also, Fioretta could
not help bringing in thot theme she says, for
it was sung to her in her cradle The father
replies, But the variations are extremely pretty
and tasteful and a flush of deligh. goes over
the expressive face of his child. The setting
sun glances across the guitar, and just touches a
rose in the maiden'S bosom. The happy mother
watches the dear group earnestly, and sketches
SkapidIy on the paper before her,-and now she,
MOO, works privately in her room, and has Sc
crct to keep On Fioretta's fifteenth birth day,
she sends by her hands, a covered present to the
father. lie opens it, and finds lovely picture
of himself and daughter, the rose and the guitar.
The sunlight glances across them in a bright
shower Of fine soft rays, and touches on the
manuscript, as with a golden finger, the few be-
loved notes, which had made them smile. As
the father shrined within his divine art the men,
cry other first hour of mutual love, so the
mother has embalmed in her beautiful art the
first musical echo from the heart of their child.
But now the tune of life passes into a sadder
mode. Dora, pale and emaciated, ljes propped
up with pillows, her hand clasped within Fioret-
ta's, her head resting on her husbands shoulder.
All is still-stilI. Their souls are k%neeling
reyerentially before the Angel of death. Heavy
sunset guns, from a neighboriug fort, boom
through the air. The vibrations shake the mu-
sic-box, and it stats up like a spirit, and plays
the cherished tune. Dora presses her daughters
hand, and she with a faint smile, MARBLES the
words they have so often sung. The dying one
looks up to Alessandro, with deep expression
of u%nearthly tenderness. Gazing thus, with one
long drawn sigh, her arectionate soul floats away
on the winds of that ETHEREAL song. The mem
DRY that taught endurance unto love leaves lu-
minous expression, a farewell glory on the life
less countenance. Attendant angels smile, and
their blessings falls on the mourners' hearts, like
dew from heaven. Fioreta remains to the wild
owed one, the graceful blossom ofkis lonely lie,
the incarnation of his beloved tune
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