Weekly Trinity journal., 1864-05-07
COUNTY OFFICIAL DIRECTORY.
So Tired.

laid its head upon her bosom, and then uttered
these two little words. l saw the fond young
mother brush the golden hair from the darling 5
moist forehead, and press her lips again to the
flushed checks. The shadows of evening were
falling fast around us, and the birds had already
sung themselves to sleep. Little shoes and
stockings were drawn off and laid aside-little
weary feet bathed and cooled-a little night
dress took the place of the pretty blue frock and
white apron, and the boy was quiet. With q
sigh of satisfaction, he next laid closer to her
breast bis blue eye closed, and her cradle-song
grew lower and lower as his breath came longer
and more regular through his parted lips. Hap
Ply sleep of childhood She and went
softly to her own room, to lay him in his little
crib, and was left alone. Heaven knows what
memory of time, when |, too, was Graded upon a
loving breast-when the dead mother, whose
face | cannot remember, sang to me in the twi-
light-came over me as took up the infant 5
cry.
so tired p
a man of business-a man whose name is a
bond on Wall street. Why should he lean his
head upon his hand and sigh the words fall
from his lips. Tired of his gay and busy life,
his elegant home, his fair daughters and his
fashionable wife? Tired Of all these and long
ing for the little red farm house up among the
hills of his native home, where he used to play
Il bare-footed, light-hearted boy? Even SO,
strange it may seem Yet not much for
the farm house as for the happiness and inno-
cence that stayed behind it, and which he can
never hope to find in his dusty Office or his
splendid home.
70 SO tired ~
She has been loving wife and an indulgent
mother. Six strong sons has she reared beside
the cottage hearth, but the grave has claimed
them all but two and those the world has taken.
The husband of her youth died long ago and
to-day her sixtieth birthday, she sits alone in
the deserted homestead. To her boys she is the
{. old woman - to the brilliant wives, "a good
old thing, but too old fashioned - to their
homes and children almost stranger. Her tears
fall as she thinks of them in distant city, gay,
prosperous, wealthy, and happy yet not remem-
bering her on this day, even by line, to say !,
" Dear mother, love you." This is her reward
for years of toll, care and anxiety. She has-out-
lived her generation and when she dies she will
hardly be missed by those to whom she has given
all her health, strength and life itself. Poor,
lonely woman Well may the bitter tears fall
fast, well may you long TO die. This is often the
return for love and devotion that has outwatched
the stars, and seen the moon grow pale
I" So tired u
Yes, turn from the brilliant crowd that listen
eagerly for every word you utter, fair songstress
and heed what your heart is saying. Words of
fire may fall from your rapid pen your own
wild soul may stamp its impress upon the page
before you the world may place the crown Of
laurels upon your bowed head, but it will be
diadem of thorns. In the height Of triumph, in
the fever of success, there will a sudden
pause, and the iron will enter your soul you
remember that one voice is silent and one face
STILL calm and cold Fame, wealth, success
oh what are these to happiness? Vanity, van
ity all, and ''vexation of spirit" and you bow
your head, and weep to think that it should be
so !
Oh, little child, not yet released from thy
mothers care, it would be better for thee to
sleep in the tranquil sleep of death, within the
shelter of her arms, than to tread the path which
we are treadng There are sharp thorns hid
den among the fairest flowers there are treach-
erous quicksands in the sweetest valleys God
help thee, my boy, for only a hand from heaven
can lead thee safely there. The golden hair will
turn to silver, it may be, and the blue eyes will
wear an anxious troubled look before the painful
and tedious journey is half done, and evil shapes
will mock and mutter, when thy heart faileth
thee and thy steps are faint.
$50 tired -
My boy, cling close to thy mothers breast :
For the day will surely come when thy lips will
utter those self-same words, and she will not be
beside thee to hush thee into forgefulness of all
thy trouble. God help thee then, and lead thee
to the only refuge :. where the wicked cease
from troubling and the weary are at rest