Thibodaux minerva. [volume] (Thibodaux, La.) 18??-1858, 1853-08-06
tile Will Forgive You Father,n

He stood leaning upon broken gate in
front of his miserable dwelling. His latter
ed hat was in his hands and the coid breeze
lifted the matted locks which covered his
noble brow. His countenance Was bloated
and dist cured, but in his eye there was an
unwonted look-a mingled expression OF sad.
ness and regret. Perhaps he was listening
to the melancholy voice of his patient wife
as she soothed the sick babe on her bosom
or perchance, he was gazing on the swee,
face of his eldest daughter, as at the open
window she piled her needle to obtain for
her mother and the poor children susie
nance. Poor Mary! for herself she cared
not young as she was, her spirit was crushed
by poverty, unkindness and neglect. As the
inebriate thus stood, his eye wandered over
the miserable habitation before him. The
windows were broken, and the doors hinge
less, scarce a vestage of comfort remained,
yet memory bore him back to the days of his
youth, when it was the abode of peace and
happiness. In infancy he saw ii gain; the
old arm chair where sat his father with the
bible upon his knee, and seemed to hear
again the sweet tones of his mother, as she
laid her hands upon the head of her darling
boy, and prayed that God would bless him
and preserve him from evil. Long years had
passed. away yet tears came into the eyes of
the drunkard at the recollection of his moth
er's love.
"Poor mother" he muttered, "it is well
hat thou art sleeping in the grave; il would
break thy heart to know that thy son is a
wretched and degraded being-a miserable
eutcast from society"
He turned slowly away. Deep within an
adjoining forest was dell where the beams
ofthe sun scarce ever penetrated. Tall trees
grew OH either side, whose branches, meet
ing above formeda canopy of leaves, where
the birds built their nests, and poured forth
happy songs. Thitber the dfunkard bent his
steps Ii had beenhis favorite haunt in the
days Of his childhood, and as he threw him.
self upon the soft greensward, the recollec-
ton of past scenes came crowdlng over his
mind. He covered his face with his hands,
and the prayer of the prodigal burst from
his lips-"Oh God receive returning
wandererM Suddenly soft arm was thrown
around his neck, and a sweet voice murmur-
ed He will forgive you, father" Starting
to his feet, the inebriate saw standing before
him his youngest daughter, a child of six
years.
"Why are you here, Anne 2" he said,
ashamed that the innocent child should have
witnessed his grief
Il came to gather the lilies which grow
upon the banks" she replied; "see, | have
got my basket full, and now am going to
sell them"
"And what DO you do with your money r'
inquired the father, as he turned his eyes to
the basket, where among the broad green
leaves. the sweet lilies of the valley were
peeping forth.
The child hesitated; she thought she had
said too much: perhaps her father would
demand the money and spend ii in the way
in which all his earnings went.
"You are afraid to tell me, Anne" said
her father, kindly, "Well l do not blame
you; | have no right to my children's con.
fidence"
The gentleness of tone touched the heart
Of the affectionate child She threw her
arms around his neck and exclaimed, ayes
father, will tell you Mother buys medi-
cine for poor little Willie. We have no
other way to get it. Mother and Mary work
all the time they can get to buy bread"
A pang shot through the inebriate's heart.
II have robbed them of the comforts of life,'
he exclaimed; from this moment The liquid
IRE passes HlyIiipS no iuOIe
Anne stood gazing at him in establishment.
She could scarcely comprehend her fathers
words; but she saw that some change had
taken place. She threw back her golden
ringlets, raised her large blue eyes with an
earnest look to his face, ''Will you never
drink any more 7" she whispered IT,
mildly. a.
"Never! dear Anne" her father replied
solemny.
Joy danced in her little eyes. "Then1we
will all be so happy. 0, father, what hap
py home ours will be?'
Years passed away. The words OF little
Anne, the drunkarrs daughter had proved
true The home Of the reformed man, her
father, was indeed happy one. Plenty
crowned his board, and health and JOY beam
ed from the face of his wife and children
where once squalid misery alone could be
traced. The pledge had raised him from his
degradation, aud restored him once more TO
peace and happiness.
MoDEsrY.-Behold the daughter Of inno-
cence, how beautiful is the miIdness of her
countenance; how lovely is the difhdence Of
her looks. Her cheek is dyed with the deep
crimson of the rose; her eye is placid and
serene, and the gen,leness of her speech as
the melting sofiness of the flute.
Her smiles are as the enlivening rays of
the sun, the beauty of her presence, as the
silver light of the moon. @
Her attire is simple, her feet tread with
caution, and she feareth to give offence.
The young and the old are enamored with
her sweetness; she carryeth her own COM
mendation.
She speaketh not the first in the CONVEX
sation Of woman, neither is her tongue heard
above her companions. ~
She turneth not her head to gaze after
the steps of men; she inquire,h not of them
whittier they are going. t
She giveth not her opinion masked, nor
stoppeth her ears to that of another.
She frequente,h not the public haupts Of
men; she inquireth not after the knowledge
improper for her condition.
So becoming is the behavior Of modesty,
so lovely among the daughters Of woman
Is there one who hath forgotten TO blush,
who pIayeth with the wanton glances Of her
sister? s
Shame will over,ake her in the prime Of
her days, and the years Of her widowhood
shall be famous as they are many. s,.s5
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