Public ledger. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1865-1893, 1870-01-22
Tbe charms Of Married Lie.

If in that chair yonder--not the one
your feet lie upon, but the one beside you,
closer yet-were seated sweet tfaced
girl, with q pretty little foot lying out
upon the hearth, bit of lace running
round the swelling throat, the hair parted
| to charm over forehead fair as any of
your dreams; and if you could reach an
arm around that chairs back without fear
of giving offense, and suffer your fingers
to play idly with those curls that escape
down the meek, and if you could clasp
| with your hands 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 sh@t,
| you we're no bachelor, but the husbando ct
some sweet image, would it not be far
more pleasant than q cold, single night,
sitting counting the sticks, reckoning the
length of the blaze, and the hight OF the
| falling snow 3aHh
Surely imagination would be stronger
and purer if it could have the playful
fancies of dawning womanhood to de-
light 10. All toll would be torn from
mind labor if but another heart grew
into this present soul, quickening it,
charming il, bidding it ever God speed.
Her face would make lovely halo, rich
as a rainbow, o stop Of all such noiSome
things 90 we lonely souls Grill trouble.
Her smiles would ilumine the blacklist
Iiof crowded cares, and darkness that now
seats YOU despondent in your solitary
chair for days together, weaving bitter
fancies. dreaming bitter dreams, would
grow light and thin, and spread and hoat
swav. chased by that beloved emile.
Your friend, poor fellow, dies-never
mind: that gentle clasp of her fingers,
ss she steals behind you, telling you not
10 weep. is worth ten friends. Your
slater. sweet one, is dead-buried. The
worms are busy with all her fairsess.
How il makes you think earth nothing
but A spot to dig graves upon. 1t is
mere i she says she will be sister, and
the waving curls, as she leans upon your
shonIder. touch your cheek, and your
wet eyes turn to meet those other eyes
God has sent his gRgel, surely
Your mother---alas ! she is gone Is
there any bitterness to youth alone and
friendless, like thisf But you are not
homeless, you are not aloue-sbe is there,
her tears softening yours, her grief BILL
ing yonrs; and you live again to assgage
that kind sorrow of hers. Then these
nbiIdreu-rosy, fair-haired; no, they do
moi disturb you With their prattle now
thew are yours. Toss sway there on the
green swsrd; never mind tts hyRcinth,
the suowdrops, the violets, IL so We any
are there; the psrfume Of ihess health
fnl Inns is worth oil the flowers in the
world No need to gather vild bouquets
10 love and cherish; flowers spd trees
are ell dead things; things livelies bold
your soul.
Add she, the mothaF, sweetest and fair
est Of ell, watching. tending, cAresslng,
and IoyiEg, till our heart groEs panied
with The tenderest jealousy, and cuIs1 y
self With loving. You have no need OF q
cold lecture to tesck you thankfulness;
vour heart is fall OF il. no seed now, as
once. of .bzrstiBg blossoms, et trees
taking leaf aud greenness, turning
thought kindly and thenkfullyi forever
beside you there is bloog, and ever be-
s;de Ton there is fruit, Tor which eye,
heart and sonl are full Of unknown, en-
spoken-beeaass nnspeaksble = thank
offsrings.