Georgetown weekly news., 1855-01-18
The Charms of Married Life.

. In that, chair yonder, not, the one your
feet lie upon, but the other beside you. clo-
ser vet, were seated sweet-faced girl with
apretty little foot lying out upon the hearth,
bit of lace running roupd the swelling
throat, the hair parted to Charm over a
forehead as fair as any Of your dreams; and
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 the other hand those little
white taper fingers of hers, which lie so
tenptingly within reach, and so, talk softly
and low in the presence of the blaze, while
theihours slip without knowledge, and the
winter winds whistle uncared for; if, in
| short, you were no bachelor, but the hus-
band OF some such sweet image, (dream,
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 falling snow
Surely imagination would be stronger
and purer, if it could have the playful fan.
cies of dawning womanhood to delight it
All toll would be torn from mind4labor, if
but another heart grew into this present
soul qulckenlng it, warming it, cheering it,
bidding it ever God speed,
Her face would nuke halo, rich as a
rainbow, aboYe all such noisome things as
we lonely souls call troublel Her smiles
would illpmine the blacklist of crowded
cares, and darkness that now seats you de-
spondent in your solitary chair, for DAYS to.
gether, weaving bitter fancies, dreaming
bitter dreams, would grow light and thin
and float away, chased by that beloved
smile. M
Your friend, poor fellowl dies-nevep
mind. That gentle clasp of her fingers, as
she steals behind you, telling YOU not to
weep-is worth ten friends. lib
Your sister, sweet one! is dead-buried.
The worms are busy with her fairness
How it makes you think earth nothing but
a spot to dig graves upon!
1t is more. She says she will bea sister;
and the waving eurls as she leans upon your
shoulder, touch your cheek, and 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 youth, alone and
homeless, like this?
But you are not homeless-not alone<
she is there, her tears softening yours, her
smile lighting yours, ber grief Killing yours;
and you live again to assuage that kind
sorrow of hers. 9a-
Then, these children, rosy, fair-haired; no,
they do not disturb you with prattle now
they are yours. Toss away there, on the
greensward; never mind the hyacinths, the
snow-drops, the violets, if it 50 be any are
there; the perfume of their healthful lips is
worth all the flowers of the world Noneed
now to gather wild boquets to love and
cherish: flower, tree, gun, are all dead things
things livelier hold your soul.
And she, the mother, sweetest and fairest
of all, watching, tending, caressing, loving,
| till your own heart grows panied with ten
derest jealousy; and curses Itself with low
ing.
1ou have no need now of cold lecture
to teach thapkfulness; your heart is full of
it. No need now, as once, of bursting bios
SONS of trees taking leaf and greenness, to
turn thonght kiadly and thoughtfully; for
ever beside you there is bloom, and ever
beside you there is fruit for which eye,
heart, and soul, are fnll of unknown, unspo-
ken-because unspeakablc-thank offerings
! TWaver'