The Plymouth Democrat. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1869-1941, 1870-01-13
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 a sweet-faced
girl, with pretty little foot lying out
upon the hearth, bit of lace running
round the swelling throat, the hair parted
to a charm over a foreheOd fair 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 a 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 60 delight it. All toll would be
| torn from mind labor if but another heart
| grew into this present soul, quickening it,
charming it, bidding it ever God-spead.
| Her face would make halo rich as a
rainbow, 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 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 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-alas! she is gone
Is there any bitterness to youth alone
and friendless, like thisr But you are not
homeless, 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, fair haired; no, they do not disturb
you with their prattle now-they are
| youS. IosS away tHeTe 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 ali the flowers i'm the world. Nc
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 faires
of all, watching, tending, caressing, ant
loving, till our own heart grows paine(
with tenderest jealousy, and cures itsel
with loving. You have no need of a colo
lecture to teach thankfulness your hear
is full of it. No need now, as once, o
bursting blossoms, of trees taking leaf an,
greenness, turning thought kindly an,
thankfully; forever beside you there
bloom, and ever beside you there is fruit
for which eye, heart and soul are full O
unknown, unspOken-because unspeaka
ble-thank- offerings.