Washington telegraph., 1853-07-13

Il
was her first bitter lesson in the worlds sol
fishness. She, whose tender feet had baen
iove-guided, to walk life's thorny path alone;
she, for whom no gift was rich or rare. or
costly enough; she who had leaned so trust
lngiy on The dear arm now SO powerless to
shield her; she, to whom love was life.
breath, being, to meet only careless olances
nay more, harsh and taunting words
y, where should that stricken heart find
rest, this side of Heaven!
Yet she might not yield to despair there
was little, Innocent helpless one for whom
1 she must live on. and toll and strucgle.-
Was the world all darkness Bent every
knee at Mammon's shrine Beat every
human heart only for its own joys and sor-
rows?
Days and months rolled on Uncle John
SAID his prayers, aud went to church. and
counted over his dear bank bills and the
widow sat up till the stars grew pale. and
bent YEARLY over long pages of manuscript;
and little Rudolph lay with his rosy cheek
nestled to the pillow, crushing his bright
rlngets, all unconscious of the weary VIGIL
the young mother was keeping. And now
1t was New Years night: and, as she laid
ASIDE her pen, memory called her back to
riel, sunny days-to a luxurious home
4 gam was she leaning on that broad, true
breast. Troops of friends were about them.
., where were they now? Then she look
ed upon her small, plainly furnished room,
SO unattractive to the. eye Of taste and re-
hnement-then it fell upon her child too
young to remember that father, whose last
act was to kiss his baby brow.
Still the child slumbered oo.-bis rod
lips parted with a snlile,-and for the first
time, she noted the little stocking, yet warm
from the dimpled foot. hung close by the
pillow, with childhood's beautiful trust in
angel hands to ell it; and covering her face
with her hands, she wept aloud, that this
simple luxury must be denied mothers
heart. Then, extinguishing her small lamp,
she laid her fearful cheek against the rosy
seeper's, with that instructive yearning for
sympathy, which only the wretched know.
In sluniber, there is, at least, forgetfulness
Kind angels whisper hope in dreams.
The golden light of New Years morning
streamed through the partially opened shut
ters upon the curly head that already nestled
uneasily on its pillow The blue eyes open-
ed slowly like volets kissed by the sun, ana
the little hand was oatstrctehed to grasp the
empty stocking. His lips quiverei aud
tears OF disappointment forced themselves
through his tiny fingers: while his mother
rose, and uurefreshed to meet another day
Of toll. And Uncle john, ob,ivioas of cf-
crything that might collapse his purse, sat
comfortably in his rocking chair, "too busy
to call On his niece. Treading, not in lis
Lords footsteps, where sorrow, and misery,
and want, made foot-trac.s, but where the
well-warnsd, wcll-clad, and well-flled, SAT
at Dives table
Time few on. 4 brighter day dawncd
for jamie. She had triumphed over dis
appointments aud discouragemants before
which stouter hearts than hers had quailed.
Comfort and independence were again hers
earned by her own untiring hand. Uncle
John was not afraid Of her now He turn
ed no more short corners 10 avoid her. She
needed no assistance. Uncle John liked to
notice that sort of people. lie grew amia-
ble even facetious; and, one day, in his
uproariousness actually sent three-cent-
piece to his nephew. whom he had not in
quired for, for three long years.
Janie's praises reached him from every
quarter; and he took a great deal Of pains
to let people know that this new literary
light was lis niece. Had he known she
would have turned out such q star, he would
have employed her. Now she was swelling
other editors subscription lists, instead OF
his That was feature of the ease he was
fully prepared to understand!
':No talent that way" said jamie to her
self, as she saw him, at last, very coolly
transfer, with his editorial hand, her arti-
cles to 1.-The Morning Star without credit,
without remuneration to herself Sancti-
monious, avaricous Uncle John. Did you
count the weary vigils they cost the writer: (:
Did you count the tears which blste red
their pages? Did you dream OF the tortur-
ing process by which the bird was blinded
ere it could sing so swcetly Knew you
that those gushing notes reached you through
prison bars, from weary captive's throat
No. no, Uncle John how should you =
For where your heart should have been
there was decided vacuum.
W.