The River Falls journal. (River Falls, Pierce County, Wis.) 1857-1861, 1861-01-16
Extracts.-MARY clnMxEn AMss,

make some extracts from late number.
What a beauty in the following descrip-
ton.
NV flowers aro dead. They died last
night. Yesterday, Just as the sun WAS
going, when that broad belt of horizon
grinding the river-bound street yon Ter,
was all afame, under the golden flood, in
their white and purple pride, they crowd
cd around the fountain in tho court be-
low, and never looked lovelier. The last
relic of The summers pomp, all threaded
with memories of home; with the scarlet
glories of the wood, and hills which had
left; looked down on the flowers and
thanked God for them. The floods of
amber rolled through the stained gates of
sunset, leaving the great concaye Of sky
deeply, celdly blue, save where, low down
the red robe of the twilight brushed the
cheek of the sea. Night, ebon, silent,
swift, swept up the infinite spaces. The
stars, those marvels of God, lit thick their
scintiliant flames in the depth of the im-
penetrable other. Then down through
the vast and distant stiffness the frost fell
and killed my crysanthemums. 1 am
sorry my flowers are dead. You would
be, too, if, amid waste of brick and
stone, they were all you had to remind
yOn how nature smiles in her open and
sunny places. If they were linked with
the names of those who to you were
best and dearest on earth, wouIdn'.
you DO sorry when the died. The littlo
court is very dreary now.sThe vines cling
to the trelIises, stark and black; the grass
is dun and shivelcd.
How graphically she paints an indiy;d-
ual life, in tho following paragraph.
! look over to the court beyond, which
reaches to Broadway. and see lis every
day object of attraction in q little, wither-
Cd OLD woman. That old woman is one
of my daily subjects of contemplation
Every morning | am astonished that she
isn't dead. 1t seems such n. wonder that
some Of tie many villains, who pace
Broadway outside of her windows, and
dive such on astonishing trade in the
way of numbering and robbins, don't avail
theaso Ives Of The luxury of killing her
some Of thc'e dark nights. Not t!4at I
want the poor old lady killed; but if they
should, what q tragedy to have under
ones window. SlIo lives in that little
house utterly alone. She has heaps of
m'nev, but keeps no servant; she has
children, but none Of them 1--we with her.
Nothing divides her fron, Broadway bur
hof frolt loor ana II r5'rlrn fence; but
as she creops about IL this !ittlo court
like shlunkcn snail, what j. i'll its wild
whiIling life 10 her: tbs stately marble
frontcd block, oycrshalow.ng her lowiy
dwelling, wlrt SO MANY, many thousands
belongs to her; this Iand lining Bro, d.
way, worth such pies Of gold, is l.ers;
yet if sho hal only enough to purchare
fer herself the tarest accessories of ex-
istencs, sac would cxtarct all the richness
from life which she gets f:o,a It now
She lives in that low dark, wooden shut
tered kitchen, and her a,sri:c morning
employment IS to poke with stick the
ashes ofyesterday's fire (every crinkler
sifled through under the stone tagging
Of her court. Look at her now, that
little old woman in rusty black. 1t is
bitter morning. yet how patiently she
pushes the ashes into tue little holes which
she has made for it. You see behind her
is patch of green, and her musty dress
brushes row of box fringing shruuken
mound. There lies buried her husband.
What manner OF q women must she be,
who, day after day, for the sake of
economy, will trust her refuse ashes into
her husbands grave!
Hore is picture of Broadway, that
brings it before our very eyes.
l turn my eyes over to Broadway. /
bave watched it every day and it is rs
great mystery as ever. This endless.
ever rolling mass of life. Men and wo-
men die; drop after drop is lost from the
pulses of this tide, yet it seems ever the
same. The gifted, the beautiful, the illus
trious, who now make a portion of its
flow, will soon exhale away to spiritual
sphere, yet those pavements, now glori-
fed by their presence, will seem the
same; there will be the same ceaseless
rumble and roll of wheels, tbs same end
less tramp of men. But Broadway has
lis phazes. From nine till ten in the
morning, it is black; alive with black