The Hickman courier., 1872-09-21
MY BOUQUET.

Paul Golden in the New York Indepen lent
This story Is all about a bouquet,
the freshest thing in the world, and
an old bachelor, the stalest, 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 a veritable old bach
elor. He is not ambitious to be
thought older than he is, and would
make himself out 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, ooh 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 a fountain Of
pleasant 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,
that cheer his declining years carries
him back to the time when he
taught school in the village Of II.
That was thirty years ago.
Let him tell his own story: Il
was a hard toiling schoolmaster, and
sometimes leaned my elbows on my
table, and wondered how I ever
came to be so foolish as to choose
the profession of a school teacher
1t seemed to me the most nervous,
harrassing profession in the world.
The boys were noisy, and not over
respectful. If stepped on a 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, l might put ideas
into their heads if l could possibly
drive them in. What l 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 /
went early to school-an hour be-
fore the time, to look over some
copy books. l finished them, laid
them aside. and resting my elbows
an the table, flor that had grown
into a habit, 1 fell into reverie-
one Of those reyeries, / am sorry to
say, that are not very creditabIe to
men and women. And l said to
myself flor | always quoted Ecclesi-
astes when | had the bluesl: "What
profit hath he that worketh in that
wherein he laboreth :" In other
words, what does it all come to
Men and women bend 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?
"That is what was saying TO
myself, whom little brown-cheek-
Ell, brown handed maiden, not quite
twelve years old, one of my schol.
ars, stole into the school-room, and
was at my elbow before 1 saw her.
| looked up, and there stood Patty
Nelson, with a bouquet in her hand.
A bouquet of what? Pansies and
mignonette No. Roses :? No.
Dandelions-large, dazzling dandel-
ions; nothing more, nothing bet
ter"
"These would look rather bright
and pretty on your table wouldn't
theyy she said, and deep red sud
denly lighted up her brown face.
" Indeed, they would" 1 answer
ed. "And have you brought them
for me ?"
"They are no. half good enough
for you," she replied; "but /
you would accept them, it will plea
me-"
Il took them from her hand, and
at once pronounced a eulogy on
dandelions, assuring my blushing,
modest liHle friend, Patty, that if
dandelion seed had only come over
to us from England or Franco, or
any other part of Europe, dandel-
ions would be all the rage, and
would have choice place among
the choicest flowers of the garden.
Patty told me she thought SO
too, 'for Mrs, Archibald Archer,