The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1859-12-01
For the National Era.
UTUMN LEAVES.
From the Diary of a Yonng Western Housesxspe

From the Diary Of a Young Western Housekxspe.
| Mais je vols, bsissenes yeux
Ses yeux bleu CONNIE escieux
Su vas dormir, nest ce pas
II s'endort chsntons bien has, -
Endors tot, Endors tot.
Mon Fills c'est mo.--Beranger
The last plaintive sob of my darling lamb has
died softly on his lips, and am free. Alas,
little journal, how have neglected thee. But
we shall soon be better friends, now that the
evenings are frightening. love to con6de To
thy trusty pages my hearts impressions, my
hearts love, my life's longings, my homely joys
and vexations, prayers, resolutions, and regrets,
and all that goes to make up the lessons of this
fevered existence. How precious the return Of
winter evenings. How calm and gentle their
influences, after the whirlwind of busy cares
that fill up each moment of the day. How de-
lightful to look at Little Lewis rosy face and
immaculate nghtgown as he sleeps, with pur-
ring puss snuggled in at the foot of the cradle.
How kindly sounds the ticking of the clock, the
drowsy hum of the kettle, the turning over of
the picture book leaves, as Little Tom, my sweet
cisoris, demurely mods over his Cinderella.
The busy clink of dear sisters knitting-needles.
and, above all country luxuries, the dreamy
rustic of my husbands newspaper.
Surely we should soon lose every relic of our
dear old Eastern homes, and become very Van
dals were it not for these blessed seasons of rest
and relaxation. With what bushes do we recall
the hurried bunders of the day, the sharp, un-
graceful call for wood and water at the kitchen
door, the hustle aud furry of preparing dinner.
Your husband is the soul of punctuality. and
with three or four sturdy corn-cutters in his
train, leaves you with his parting injunction
that dinner must be ready at twelve
You promise readily, for it is only six clock,
and, as the soft-glowing rays of the morning
sun penetrate the little white curtain of the
kitchen window you are full of bright elasticity,
and, with many gushing thought of school
days classics, you are more than willing to be
obedient You imagine yourself the lovely
young Lavinia; and the milk pans the butter,
and the ehurn, and the sweet rural sounds that
I'LL the morning air, are all a living poem in
your fancy; and, as you briskly scamper from
pantry to cistern, every vein seems bounding
with thankfulness and JOY. The booming Of
the prairie chickens, the quacking of the ducks
on the little ponds, the kio,v-kio,o of the wild
turkeys, as they come skulking around your
barnyard, after the men are off at their work,
and the hoarse screeching of the ugly old pump.
suckers, all mellowed with the lowing OF the
gentle milk cows and the plaintive bleating of
the sheep, make chorus strange and gro
tesque.
You love to make an excursion to the barn
Of morning sunlight that now P65urs 6dvef the
landscape; and, though you only meant to be
gone minute, you forget the eggs, and stand
transfxed at the barn door, looking over the wild
and beautiful plains before you. The dew is
ugly old weed is now adorned with nodding
plume, glttering and waving like so many fairies
over the gentle lea. And in that elfn grove
stands your own sweet cottage home, with its
odd gables and pretty porches, and the light
curling smoke from that blessed hearth-stone
seems to carry with it to the skies your matin
alteration and thanksgiving. And, oh, the trees
the trees! clap your hands, We little hills. As
David loved the cedars of Lebanon, so your soul
cleaves to those dear old oaks, and these are
the days of their glory. Old kings of the forest
primeval, how magnificent their robing-orange,
crimson, green, and purple and, while your
ecstasy grows till your heart nearly breaks loose
from its prison, you are suddenly brought down
W ny seeing HJIlc 1Ofn isAuluR his UdDy
brother across the porch, in his little bare feet
and night gown. This is a stuEner in your
nursery tactics, and you fly to the house, just
aroused to the consciousness of how you have
wasted your time and now a thousand things
beset you to be done at once, each several act
claiming first. You wish the landscape in the
bottom of the Dead Sea.
Away with the Authorizations of poetry. Gin
derella was not more magically disenchanted.
You are Western housekeeper with two I'M
dressed children on your hands, and dinner to
make for one, two, three, four, FIVE, six. 1t
seems to you Hannibal crossing the Alps was
Just nothing to it. You look at the clock.
What it is already eight, and you have done
nothing yet. The children are cross and IN
reasonable, and detain you with endless capers
about their breakfast. Lew has lost his shoe
string, and fights at the cold water like very
salamander. Tom wants to wear his new boots,
and you must stop and settle him meanwhile,
the cat upsets the milk bucket, and the dog
runs off with the cold meat which you had
thought plenty for dinner. Lew throws away
his breakfast to the chickens, and is hanging
around your skirts, duplicating, sup mamma,
up mamma" Sweet lamb! you can't endure
even his pretty ways with any patience and you
dash away from his poor little heart broken
cries, and hurry to the smoke-house for ham,
wherewith to replace your lost meat. You pile an
old box on top OF an old ash BARREL and mount
your rostrum it gives you an awful cramp to
look up at the meat hanging high over your
head, but, with long stick in your hand, you
poke and twist till at last bang comes the ham,
crash goes the old barrel from under you,
thumpety- bump goes your head, and you find
| Yourself somewhere up in corner of the smoke
house, rubbing your crazy bone, and huggiDg
| twenty pound ham, not very much elated with
| your success. You come out from amid the
| dust and ashes of humility very meekly, catch
| glimpse of Bill the bound boy snickering at
| your misfortune. You can't stand being de-
graded in the eyes of pauper, and make a
| convulsive effort to look composed. Assuming
| the tone of Roman matron, you bid him go
to his work. He gives quizzical look at you
| over his shoulder, that caps the climax of your
vexation, and you wish the earth would swal
low him. just then, line of Lamartine
passes through your mind: " Youth is Civ
en- us that we may learn to grow old grace
fully" You feel that you are growing old
gracefully with a vengeance just now, and you
vent your impotent wrath by calling Lamar
tine an old fool. You are bitter and angry.
But the angel over the right whispers unex-
pectedly: "He that ruleth his temper is great
er than he that taketh CITY," Again you are
| metamorphosed. God be praised, your chill
| dren have not seen you angry, and when poor
baby meets you at the kitchen door, and again
| folds his darling arms around your knees, you
put down the hateful ham, and with falling
tears and contrite heart pick up the poor little
| pet, and speak gently, and hunt up his little
coat and hat, and send him on his way re-
| joicing with Tommy, to see papa cutting corn !;
| and as you look minute after them, as they
90 hand and hand through the winding path,