Southern sentinel. [volume] (Plaquemine, Parish of Iberville [La.]) 1848-1858, 1851-03-08
a Picture for Bachelor Readars.

| If in that chair yonlcr, not the one your
| feet lie upon, but the other, beside vou-clo-
ser yct-Wcre seatcda sweet faced girl with a
pretty, little foot lying out upon the hearth
i bit Of lace running round the swelling throat
| tile hair parted to charm over 4 forehead
fair as any Of your dreams-.and if YOU could
reach an arm round that chair back without
| fear Of giving offence, and suffer your fingers
to play idly with those curls that escape down
| the neck, and if you could clasp with your 9TH
! er hand, those little, white taper fingers of
hers, which lie so temptingly within reach
and so, talk softly and low in the presence Of
the blaze, while the hours slip without know.
ledge, and the winter winds whistle uncared
for; if in short, you were no bachelor, but the
husband of some such sweet image--(d (dream,
call itrather) would it not be far plcasanter
than q cold single notwithstanding the
stIcks--reckoning the length Of the blaze, and
the height Of the falling snow. Surely ima-
gination would be stronger and purer, if it
could have the playful fancies Of dawning
womanhood to delight it. All toll would be
torn from the mind-!abor, if but another heart
grew into this present souls quickening it,
warning it, cheering it, bidding it ever God
speed. Her face would make 4 halo, rich as a
rainbow, atop Of all such noisome things as
we lonely souls call trouble. Her smiles
would ilIumne the blackest ofcrowded cares,
and darkness that now seats you despondent in
your solitary chair, for days together, weaving
bitter fancies, dreaming bitter dreams, would
grow light and thin, and spread and float
away--chased by that beloved smile. Your
friend, poor fellow. dies-never mind; that
gentle clasp of her finger, as she steals be-
hind you, telling you MOTTO Wcep--it is worth
ten friends. Your sister, sweet one, is dead
buried. The worms are busy with all their
fairness. How it makes you think earth moth
ing but spot to dig graves upon! 1t is
more: she says sho will be . sister; and the
waving curls, as she leans upon your shoul-
der, touch your cheek, aud your wet eyes turn
to meet those other eyes--God has sent his
angel, surely! Your mother, alas for it, she is
gone. Is there any bitterness to 4 youth,
alone, and homeless, like this? But you are
not homeless; you are not alone; she is there:
her tears softing yours, her smile lighting
yours, her grief killing yours; and you live
again to assuago that kind sorrow OF hers
Then--these children, rosy, fair-halred; no,
they do not disturb you with prattle now
they are yours. Toss away there on the
grecnsward-never mind the hyacinths, the
snow drops, the violets, if so be any are there
the perfume Of their hcalthful lips, is worth all
the flowers Of the world. No need to gather
wild boquets to love and cherish; flower, tree,
gun, are all dead things; things lvelier hold
your soul. And she, the mother, sweetest and
tairest of all, watching, tending, caressng, low
ing till your own heart grows panied with ten
derest Jealousy; and curses itself with loving.
You have no need now, of cold lecture to
teach thankfuiness; your heart is full of it,
No need now as once, of bursting blossoms
of trees taking leaf, and greenness, to turn
thought kindly and thankfully; for ever beside
is fruit for which eye, heart and soul, are full
of unknown, unspoken, because unspeakable
Offerings. ss.sz.z