Prescott journal. [volume] (Prescott, Wis.) 1861-1871, 1870-08-04

If insthat chair yonder-not the one
,our feet be upon. but the enc beside
you, closer y,t--were seated sweet.
faced girl, with a pretty little foot lying
out upon The heath, y bit of lace run
mag 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 otiense. and suf-
fer your fingers to play idly with those
curls flat escape down the neck, and If
you could clasp with your hands those
little vii Q taper fingers of hers, which
lie so temptingly within reach, and talk
so softly and low in the presence OF The
blaze. while the hours slip without knowl-
edge and the winter winds whistle un.
cared for; il, in short, you were 10 bach
elor, but the husband of some sN eet i'm
age, would ii not be far more pleasant
than cold, single night, sitting counting
the sticks. reckoning 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 womanhood to de-
light 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 a halo rich as a
rainbow, stop of all such noisome
things ms we lonely souls call trouble. -
Her smiles would iIlumine the blacklist
OF crowded cares, and darkness that now
seats you despordent in your solitary
chair for days together, weaving bitter
fancies, 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 she steals behind you, telling you not
to weep, is worth ten friends. Your sis
ter sweet one, is dsad-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: says she will be sister, and tie
waving curls, as she leans upon your
shoulder, touch your cheek, and Your
wet eyes turn TO meet those other eyes
Cod has sent bis angel, surely. Your
MOTHER alas! she is gone? Is there
any bitterness to a youth alone and friend
less, like thiss But you are not home
less, yeu are not alOue--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, fair 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 viole;s, if SO be any
are there; the perfume Of these health
full lips is worth all the flowers in the
the world. No need to gather wild DO.
quits to love and cherish; flowers. tree,
gun, are all dead things; things liveler
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 cold lecture to
teach thankfulness; your heart is full Of
it. No need now, as once, of bursting
blossoms, of trees taking leaf and green.
ness, turning thought kindly and thank.
fully; forever beside you there is bloom.
and ever beside you there is fruit. for
which eye, heart and soul are full of un
known, unspoken-because unspeakable
thank offerings.