Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1851-06-11
A PICTURE FOR BACHELORS.

If in that chair yonder-not the one your
feet lie upon, but the other beside you
closer yet-were seated sweet-faced girl,
with pretty little foot lying out upon the
hearth, a bit oflace running round the throat,
and the hair parted to charm over fore
head fair as any in your dreams, and if you
could reach an arm through that chair-back
without fear of giving offence, and suffer
your finger to play idly with those curls that
escape down the neak, and if you could clasp
with your other hand those little white Ia
per 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 knowledge and the winter wind
whistle uncared for-if, in short, you were
no bachelor but the husband Of such sweet
image-dream call it, rather-would it not
be far pleasanter than cold single night,
sitting counting the sticks, reckoning the
length of the blaze and the height of the fall
ing snow?
Surely imagination would be stronger and
purer if it could have the playful fancies OF
womanhood to delight it. All toll would be
torn from mind-labor, if but another heart
grew into this present, soul quickening it,
warming it, cheering it, bidding it ever God
speed. Her face would make halo rich as
a rainbow atop of all such noisome things as
we lonely souls call trouble. Her smiles
would illumine the blackest Of crowded
cares; and darkness that now seats you des-
pondent in your solitary chair, for days to-
gether, 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
fingers, as she steals behind you telling you
not to weep-it is worth ten friends.
Your sister, sweet one, is dead-buried.
The worms are busy with all her fairness.
How it makes you think earth nothing but
spot to dig graves upon! tits more. She
says she will be sister and the waving
curls, as she leans upon your shoulder, touch
your cheek, and your wet eye turns to meet
those other eyes. God has sent his angel,
surely Your mother-alas for it !-she is
gone! Is there any bitterness to youth "a
lone and homeless like this? You are not
alone. She is there-her tears softening
yours, her grief killing yours, and you live
again to assuage that kind sorrow Of hers
Then these children, rosy, fair-haired-no,
they do not disturb you with prattle now;
they are yours. Toss away there on the
green sward. Never mind the hyacinths.
the snow-drops, the violets, if so be they are
there. The perfume of their healthful lips
is worth all the flowers of the world.
No need now to gather wild boquets to
love and cherish. Flowers, tree, gun, are
are all dead things. Things livelier held
your soul and she, the mother, sweetest
and fairest of all, watching tending, cares
sing loving till your own heart grows pain
ed with tenderest jealousy You have no
need now of cold-lecture to teach thank
fulness; your heart is full of it-no need
now, as once, Of bursting blossoms of trees
taking leaf and greeness, to turn thought
kindly and thankfully; for ever beside you
there is bloom, and ever beside you there
is fruit for which eye, heart and soul are
full Of unknown, unspoken, because un-
speakable neutrality-suspicious. Of a
Bachelor.