The Bolivar bulletin. [volume] (Bolivar, Hardeman County, Tenn.) 1865-1888, 1872-09-27
MY ROUOuET.

Paul Golden in the New York Indepen ient.
This story Is all about a bouquet,
the freshest thing in the world, and
an old bachelor, the staIest, dryest
thing !; but that's the way things al
ways get mixed up. in this world,
so the reader will not be surprised.
Let no one suppose that the old
bachelor is not Il veritable old bach
elor. He is not ambitious to be
thought older than he is, and would
make himself ont young If he could.
No. He is really an old bachelor;
but every lot in life, however sad
and trying, has its compensation. If
people say of him, Oh he's the
most confirmed bachelor alive he's
been in society these forty years,
and the girls have all done looking
at him" his heart is q fountain of
Pheasant thoughts. He had passed
not only his sixth and sixteenth, but
his sixtieth year, and no one doubts
that he is an old bachelor, but he
has this advantage over younger
people-he has more to think about.
fortunately for himself, he has
more sweet than bitter memories,
and one of the sweetest memories
that cheer hisdeclining years carries
him back to the time when he
taugh school in the village of H.
That was thirty years ago.
Let him tell his own story: Il
was hard toiling schoolmaster, and
sometimes leaned my elbows on my
table, and wondered how I over
eamc to be so foolish as to choose
the profession of a school teacher.
It seemed to me the most nervous,
harrassing profession in the world.
The boys were noisy, and not over
respectful. If l stepped on piece
of ice and fell down, they enjoyed
the fun and too many of them
poorly rewarded me for all the
wearisome hours / spent with them
in the schoOl-room, for they seemed
to expect me to pull them up the
ladder of learning by main force.
In other words, I might put ideas
into their heads if could possibly
drive them in. What / did many
of them wanted me TO do without
their assistance. And even the
girls am sorry to say, did not
tighten my tolls, as they might have
done. They whispered; they both
cred and annOyd me with imperfect
recitations, and, oh Unkindest deed
of all, some of them laughed at me
behind my back. One morning l
went early to school-an hour be-
fore the time, to look over some
copy books. / finished them, laid
them aside, and resting my elbows
en- the table, flor that had grown
into a habit, 1 fell into a reverie-
| one of those revcries, l am sorry to
say, that are not very croditable to
men and women. And / said to
myself flor | always quoted Ecclesi-
astes when I had the blucs1: "What
profit hath he that worketh in that
wherein he laboreth ?" In other
words, what does it all come to a?
Men and women bond their backs
and nerves almost to breaking; and
all for what A living? nothing
more Without money and the
leisure that money brings, what is
life? r laa
'sThat is whatI was saying 20
myself when little brown-cheek-
eG, brown-handed maiden, not quite
twolve years old, one of my schol-
ars, stole into tho schoolroom, and
was at my elbow before I saw her.
I locked up, and there stood Patty
Nelson, with a bouquet in her hand.
A bouquet of what Pansios and
niignonette No. Roses ? No.
Dandelions-large, dazzling dandel-
ions; nothing more, nothing bet
ter.'S
These would look rather bright
and pretty on your table wouldn't
ihey she said, and a deep red sud
deRly lighted up her brown face.
"Indeed, they would" / answers
ed. And have you brought them
tor mel"