The Columbia herald. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 1850-1873, 1870-01-21
The Charms Of Married Life.

If in that chair yonder-not the one
your feet lie upon, but the one beside you,
closer yet-were seated q sweet-faced
girl, with a pretty little foot lying out
upon the hearth, bit of lace running
round the swelling throat, the hair parted
to charm over q foreheod fair as any of
your dreams; and if you could reach an
arm around that chairs back without fear
of giving ofense, and suffer your fingers
to play idly with those curls that escape
down the neck, and If you could clasp
with your hand those little white taper
fingers of hers, which lie SO temptingly
within reach, and talk softly and low
In the presence of the blaze, while the
hours slip without knowledge and the
winter winds whistle uncared for; if, in
short, you were no bachelor, but the hus>
band of some sweet image, would it not
be far more pleasant than q cold, single
night, sitting counting the sticks, reckon
ing the length of the blaze, and the height
of the falling snow? Surely imagination
would be stronger and purer If it could
have the playful fancies of dawning wo-
manhood to delight it. All toll would be
torn from mind labor If but another heart
grew into this present soul, quickening 1t,
charming it, bidding it ever God-speed.
Her face would make q halo rich as a
rainbow, q stop of all such noisome things
as we lonely souls call trouble. Her smiles
would illumine the blacklist of crowded
cares, and darkness that now seats you
respondent in your solitary chair for days
together, weaving bitter Gncies, dreaming
bitter dreams, would grow light and thin,
and spread and float away, chased
by that beloved smile. Your friend,
poor fellow, dies-never mind; that
gentle clasp of her fingers, as SIZE
steals behind you, telling you not to weep,
is worth ten friends Your sister, sweet
one, is dead-buried. The worms are
busy with all her fairness How it makes
you think earth nothing but spot to dig
graves upon. 1t is more; she says she
will be sister, and the waving curls, as
she leans upon your shoulder, touch your
cheek, and your wet eyes turn to meet
those other eyes-God has sent His angel,
surely. Your mother-alasi she is gone?
Is there any bitterness to youth alone
and friendless, like thisi But you are not
you are not alone-she is there,
her tears softening yours, her grief killing
yours; and you live again to assuage that
kind sorrow of hers. Then these children
rosy, air-haired; no, they do not disturb
you with their prattle now-they are
yours. Toss away there ON the green
sward; never mind the hyacinth, the
snow drops, the violets, if so be any are
there; the perfume of these healthful lips
is worth all the flowers in the world. No
need to gather wild bouquets to love and
cherish; flowers, tree, gun, are all dead
things; things livelier hold your soul. |
And she, the mother, sweetest and fairest
Of all, watching, tending, caressing, and
loving, till our own heart grows panied
with tenderest jealousy, and cures itself
with loving. You have no need of a cold
lecture to teach thankfulness; your heart
is full of it No need now, Is once, of
bursting blossoms, of trees taking leaf and
greenness, turning thought kindly and
forever beside you there isl
bloom, and ever beside you there Is fruit,
for which eye, heart and soul are full of
unknown, unspoken-because unspeaka-
offerings