Litchfield enquirer., 1848-03-16

| is NOT Wlthout resources. lie draws oil his
gay mitlens, chow vividly they remind us
of thai first pair knit for US by the fingers
ola dear old grandmother,) and begins to
unload his pockets. A ball, combs, knife,
pin>boxes, broken pencils, half a dozen
walnuiS, piece of chalk, a broken gimblet.
quite respectable museum is collected on
| his sled before he comes to the snarl Of
"waxt>ends,' tow strings, aLd shop Irvine,
which, perchance, his admiration for the
character of Ben. in Miss Edgewortd's sto>
ry of sWaste not, Want not" has led him
to hoard up. A few m oments suffice 10
remedy the accident, and he is off TO over
take his school.mat"S. .,
There comes sleigh round the corner.
Esq. c. has picked up all the children
we trust those brigh,>eyed girls with cheeks
mocking the cherry>colored lining Of their
hoods, will not take offence at the word) in
his neighborhood. Boys, and sirls, blue,
black, hazle, and gray eyed. are huddled in
together, laughing, chatting, and chipping
to the old white horse But the cunning
old fellow pretends 10 be deaf, though it is
easy to see by the quick motion of his ears,
that he hears every werd. He keeps on his
slow, even step, as if conscious that he is a
far better judge of the state Of the road than
those young heads. Occasionally he feels
the pressure of the bit and pauses in front
of house and stands, blowing a cloud Of
breath from his nostrils, while his master
discusses the price of potatoes with the far
mer and his boys, who are out making
paths. We country people are said to lack
politeness, but see, how the Squire turns
out into the deep drift 10 let those girls pass.
Tomorrow, perchance, he will visit the city
and be laughed at by young ladies whose
fathers would be on the bankrupt list, were
it not foI him and others of his class. He
will care little for that. but il will be long
before, he foIgels the bright smiles with
which those young girls thank him for his
thoughtful kindness. They will brighten
the W hole day. --.
There goes uncle Us team. He is
out Of wood, will wager. for there has not
been a snow >slorm these twenty years. that
has not caught him in the same predica-
ment. "Right my luck" the old man will
say-but little more energy and fole-
though. would act like charm in his case,
as we'll as many Others.
The stir of life increases. The village
common, on which: a few hours since, the
snow lay, pure, uubroken sheet, has now
the look of morris>board, crossed by
dozen different tracks, all cOnverging to>
ward the same focus-"lhe store" door.-
Before nighl-fall there will be paths leading
to every home ia the village.
In the meantime let us turn withia and
Iead-nay, not Agassiz's " Glacial Theo>
ry," E. We will have no "Iee PEI
riods" to-day though heaven knows We have
felt their chilling influence often CROUCH in
our fragment of a life. Give us gentle
- Ella" or better still, John Keats Poems
and we will conjure mp dream Of summer,
deepened almost to reality by yon stand. o.
flowers, and the dow hum OF grandmother's
flie-s as she turns her wheel. -.....
Hark the bell is tolliag. Said we not
there would be paths leading to every home
before night>fall9 SJlsmnly and slow it
sends its voice over hillside and dale, stars
thing the dwelers 10 the distant farm houses
with its mournful message. and calling forth
many heartfelt expression of sympathy
for the young couple who are about to bury
their fiIst-bOrn .......
We little thought, sweet Mary W
when last we saw thee, some eight days ago,
playing DO peep with thy baby brother.
hiding thy sunny eyes and sunny hair in
the folds Of thy mothers dress, that the first
snow Of winter would fall upon thy open
grave. "Sorrowful even unto DEATH" are
the hearts of mourners beneath the sky OF
summer, but who shall paint the agony Of
those young parents hearts, when they saw
that dear head, that had known no harder
pillow than mothers bosom, laid down in
the frozen grave! .....l ..-.
4 But, blessed be his His holy name, while
the deep yearnings of Nature tempt them to
rush forward and snatch their darling from
that dreary pillow, Faith whispers, "She is
not here, but is risen" ....
Now they are all gone. The tramp'ed
snow and that small hillock ofbrown earth,
the last visible footprint Of the child~an'
gel-are all the traces that remain to marx
the world-old struggle between Life and
Death. Yon lead of merry sleighers WILL
pass by without needing them, butt on
how many. mauy times during the dreary
night. will that young mothers heart re-
turn to that little grave in the churchyard--
how many, many bitter s,ruggleSere she car
truly say, "Thy will be done r. ''7@ ~