Weekly Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1853-1861, 1855-04-26
The Charms of Married Life.

IL in that chair yOnd er, not the one your
feet lie upon, but the other beside yOu, closer
vet. were seated sweet faced girl, with q
pretty little foot lying ont upon the hearth,
a bit of lace running around the swelling
throat, the hair parted to n charm over fore
head fair as any Of your dreams; and If you
could reach an ann round that chair back,
without fear Of giving offence, and sufferyour
fingers to play idly with those curls that
escape down the neck, and if you could
clasp with your other hand, those little white
taper fingers of hers, which lie so tempting
" within reach, and so, talk softly and low
in the presence of the blaze while the hours
slip without knowledge, and the winter winds
whistle uncared for; it, in short, you were no
bachelor, but the husband ofsome such sweet
image, dream call it, rather, would it no be
far pleasanter than cold, single night-sitting
counting the sticks, reckoning the blaze, and
the height Of the falling snow.
Surely imagination would he stronger and
purer, If il could have the playful fancies of
dawning womanhood to delight it. All toll
would be torn from the mind-labor, if but
another heart grew into this present soul,
quickened it, warming it, cheering it, bidding
it ever God speed.
Her face would make halo, rich as a r.lin-
bow, stop of all such noisome things as we
lonely souls call trouble. Her smiles would
illume the blacklist of crowded cares, and
darkness that now seats you respondent in
your solitary chair, Tor days together, weav-
ing bitter fancies, dreaming bitter dreams,
would grow light and thin, and spread and
float away, chased by that beloved smile.
Your friend, poor fellow die-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 their fairness.
How it makes Won think earth but spot to
dig graves upon.
1t IS more she SAYS she will be sister
and the waving curls, 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 if she is gone Is
there any bitterness to youth alone and
homeless ike this
But you are not homeless you are not
alone; she is there; her tears softening yours,
her smile lighting yours, her grief killing
yours and you live again TO assuage that
kind sorrow Of hers
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 any are there;
the perfume of their healthful lips is worth
all the flowers in the world. No need now
to gather wild boquets to love and cherish
flower tree, gun, are all dead now things
livelier hold your soul.
n h ,,.otbar c,.-aataot o,l f.;ro.,
Of all, watching, tending, caressing, loving, till
your heart grows panied with tenderest jeal-
ousy and curses itself with loving.
You have no need now of cold lecture to
teach thankfulness 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 be-
side you there is bloom, and ever beside you
there is fruit for which eye, heart, and soul
are full of unknown-unspoken-b
nspeakable-thank-offe