Weekly Trinity journal., 1869-02-27
KATIE GRAyT.

| am tired of looking out of t he window down
tho dull street how sick am of these French
towns! I think I would rather live in garret
in England, with the yellow fo,, hanging thick
around the smoky panes, than go on day by day
dragging out my weary visten here. | have
looked out at the white hoils es with their
wooden sh utters and lace curtai n till am sick
of their uniformity. | have co nted dozens of
stone carts on two wheels, eac drawn by two
white horses with blue-ffinged rugs. l have
seen tards ana yards of bread go up in great
wicker baskets. Tired am | OF the tramp of
wooden .sabots on the rough an round stones !
tieed of the clean capped won en- the old-fash-
ioued children tired of the an tic s of the white
poodle in the street-tired OF wa tching the Gus
toners at the shop opposite, an for reading
over for the thousandth time :" 'heophile. Let
fort d debitant Marehand de Wins" So | turn
wearilt. and come back to the round velvet
chair bv he FIRE studded with br ass nails, with
uncomfort, ,ble wooden arms, and back that
could only fit somebody with hump, and l
Al. h heavily. My soul yearns for the coal fires
If ola Englan, L. wherein Of yo.~e read pictures
a,d say faces for the old chimney-Corner
where 7 A, ,eame.' dreams, aud smiled to myself
over bannv couce its. The logs are damp and
cheerless. the wool fire hurts my eyes. turn
and look AZ the ster eotyped French plates on the
walf wbencc :. LIE pt tit corporal - looks grimly
dow, at the hit of carpet with big clumsy
roses at the velvet M utel-piece the i'm TIA tion
bron2e clock with lack adasieal lady in lis tess
pursuit of knowledge OIL the top, at the mi sty
g;lt-framed glass, with m any crack and fla W
in its quicksilver. And Oh, you little Dresden
shepherd and shepherdess, etc. nally smiling upon
each other with honied looks tl'at never change,
and hands perpetually presenting upfading flow
ers-you little false picture of falls lives-how j
loathe and scken Of you! Much Ia ther would.
gaze all day Ion Y at that tme-worh print hung
in yonder dim corner, although it h.ss made my
heart ache many time with old NE nories-
that at least is true. Tu ne NJ aime ,''is-the
poor boy kneeling at his mistress feet with pite-
Gus entreaty in his eyes, and she, disd,1fu
haf-turned aside, concealing yawn. Oh, this
long weary afternoon will it never end? Only
ten minutes past four now. Work is the uni
versal panacea they say. l believe it, and yet
| can't work to-day. Ny lstless fingers refuse
| occupation, my aching eyes are only fit for
| tears-tears, barren tears, that bring no COM
| fort wish had some to talk to-some one
| to toll out my sorrow to, who could not ask me
questions. nor speak to me, but only just give
re one loving glance of sympathy-one kindly
hand pressure to show they beard and under
stood me. |, who all my life have been so shy
and reticent, long to be garrulous this after
noon |, who have buried all my bitterness so
deep down in the ground of my heart, have
watered it with my tears, aid let the grass
grow thick upon it, to-day would undo my
work-would root up the earth with my hands,
unclose the coffin-lid, and bring out my grief,
not decayed, not mouldered into dust, but kept,
| living, fresh. Can | talk to bare walls would
that comfort me I? Can take pen and write
coldly and deliberately about times whose mem
| ory makes every nerve thrill and rquiver? Who
would care to read if did-to read such an old,
old story? Shall | paint picture? bring out
the old palette and paint-brushes so long put
by, and paint in rainbow hues, to blur them out
1,,l aud IL IT, Nat
| will put on fresh log-the wood is dry now,
and will draw up the little sofa and close my
eyes, used to have keen imagination. !
| will fancy am sitting in my own little chair by
our bright FIRE in the old rectory parlor, and
Wonder. her white hands folded, her gentle eyes
filled with tears of divine pity, my mother sits
watching me-my- sainted mother dead so long
AGO Listen, little mother, who left me for
| YOUR Father mansion so long ago. You would
lnst know the little one now whom you lett
Ibripht-faeed child, with big gray eyes, and long
soft curling hair. The eyes are dim with many
tears now. little mother, and there are deep
lines In the brow and round the mouthAnot
llapobter lines that grow about the eyes, but
Hines scored by pain and weariness. There are
threads of white in the hair they tell me you
wore wont to be so proud Of. am only
tweuty-eieht four years younger than you wnen
YOU died, aud yet look years oioer 'nan 'na1
sweet picture of you'll always wear ioo.u ~ aJ
neck 1You would not like to think you hsd
oniy brought your child into the world to suffer
and he sad. dear, would you? and so wiz teil
yos 6rst of those glad days thai were so orgn.,
so full of dancing sunshine, when Inc Mos,. s,
e seemed made for me. and when ] could MOI
realize a better, happier world than the one
, live in. 1t was on my seyenteentn o'r1ua,
little mother, the 9Th of June-you recone.a,
c and II went dan nf over the lawn to meet Pfla
o as he came from tie churchyard. He used ia
go there every morning to say his prayers .!
your grave, poor little mother, and then ne
|, would come sorrowfuily and slowly Aemewards
until mel him by the gate- and then be Foaio
smile at your child and kiss her fondly and
stroke her head. Oh, mother, have you found
out yet Why soma Of M uoor toilers lore SC