The Louisiana Democrat. [volume] (Alexandria, La.) 1845-1918, 1869-12-29
Memory's Heartaches.

carpet, we bend down our head and
turn aside from the merry games and
bright smiles that wreathe the face of
Hope, to call Memory from the corner
OF our heart where We too often bid her
linger. She is up at our call, and
though stray lines of sunshine Iinger
here and there. her smile of welcome is
sad one, and sp axis to us of friends
dead aud hopes crushed.
We are going back, now, down the
shady valley that entombed the old
red farm house; we are looking away
back years and years at balls and tops
and hoops, and young lads shouting in
their sports and games. We see neither
at the door, and the football of her
companion echoes up the gravelcd
walk. We follow with our eyes the
finger of Memory, and we see the cold,
ghost-like tombstones grouped togeth-
er in the hillside graveyard. We see
the tears and signs that Hope has never
hlotted out; we follow eacl, step from
boyhood to silver locks. Years ago Il
baby voice rang through parlor and
kitchen; baby laugh rippIed out in
little waves, as the chubby white feet
paitered over the floor; baby smiles
welcomed rs at the door, and the little
fingers felt in our pockets to grasp n
reward. Hope told us of life for him
that should in the gray locks of our
life cheer and bless us, We unlock
the sacred drawer, and take out the
wooden horse, the ball of string, the
two little brown marbles, and great
pain tugs at our heart. We see n
snowy cot: hear little groans of pain
and anguish, and see the death angel
stand in the door and weep with ms
while she bids him come. A little cof-
fin, a stiffness in the house, a tiny
grave. Oh Memory, you bring mp
hot, bitter tears; you wrench down with
ruthless hand the wall which Hope had
built to prevent us from looking over
the desert spots of life.
Hand IN hand with Memory, we are
going down the lane that led us IN
from childhood. The grass is scared
and scorched; the flowers bloomed un-
der the dew of Hope to be wlthered by
the crnel words of men. There are
vacant chairs at the table; there are
marble slabs that tell us of the dead
and gone. We forget the little things
just as the drops of the ocean are lost
in the great wave; but Hope cannot
laugh to scorn the great grief of our
tears. e---
''Tnrn backward, oh Time" Give
ns-again the bounding steps of youth
the merry laugh, the bright spots of
sunshine that clouds have since turned
into funeral pals! We are growing
old. We are grouping in the darkness
that leads us along the unknown shore
We smile sadly at the beckoniugs OF
Hope. We wish to lie young again; to
have no heartaches and wrinkles of
care. We want to sec the coifincd
forms start into life, and hear moth
er's kind good night, and feel her soft
hand on our locks as she prays that
He may guide our young feet in the
right way. We want the kind words
of a father, to hear the merry laugh of
sister, to feel that some one sighs at
our wantlerings and smiles at our bet
ter deeds. Take back yonr grey hairs
and your bnrdensome years! Give us
onr lie to begin again. Sweep away
those tokens, wet with tear falls, and
tell us that Memory has guided us
wrongly. as -.a.r
Have pity, Father Time! You were
never young; you never grow old;
there is no one to mock your faltering
steps, no one to laugh mt your grey
hairs. We love tie clear sunlight. the
green trees, the beautiful earth. Men
have used HIS all, and we must live to
forgive them; we have not always done
right, and WE must live to repent. Tell
us that we shall live score of years
ten-tive-even one year more. Tell
us that another sun will not set on our
open grave. 4
Alas you will not. You brush
away poor Memory, sobbing in her pity,
and yen sritke another hour on the
bell of the great clock to tell us that
the grave is much the nearer our own
shrouded form. our font-stcps so much
nearer the turbid waters. Yea add
another line of care, sprinkle more
tokens of your presence among on,
locks, and the weird shadows dance in
g!ee that our life lamp must flicker and
grow pale before the approack of that
mysterious dawn whose light s!:all close
onr eyes in the long stiffness of the
narrow home Exchange.
The SEA.-What miser the sea