The Valley Virginian. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1865-1895, 1874-12-31
The Old Yeer.

they might have been valuable, but it is now
too late to turn them to account. Impatiently
we look to the preface, but it gives no insight
into the beyond. and with glance we pass it
by and search for the record of the seed-time
There it is ! it needs no date to reference it {;
the handwriting is swift, uncertain as it the
ideas came too freely to allow lis time to place
them. on the spotless sheet in the dull A. B. C.
OF every day life. They arc iotted down in
stenographer's notes--hye=and-hye we will fill
| them out so that he who runs may read; at
present we have no time to bestow upon those
minor details, for our whole life lies before us,
and plans must be made for its enjoyment.
The sheets are perfumed, but so crowded and
TANNED together that now we can scarcely
find beginning or end On little further,
and we come upon the poetry OF the year. We
imagined then that life was all poetry, or if
not, that ours would prove the exception, and
so Fancy's pen filled rapidly the pages, leaving
only the margin for commonplace Work, and
even that is given with grudge, for Work is
SO tedious. 1t mars the beauty of the verse,
and is sure to line in some prosy moral which
is applicable alone to the herd of mankind
| the bourgeois and we cannot see where it will
have any bearing upon our future. OF course,
| we shall work, but the field will be far above
the vulgar level, and when we arc weared and
the honest drops oozc from our heated brow,
there will be loving hands to smoothe back the
matted hair; a soft voice will whisper words
of courage and sympathy and dull care will be
driven away. Labor will be sweet, and we
shall not grow tired of it, but, on the contrary,
set an example to the idlers, wean them from
their ways and lead, not follow, in the paths
OF progress.
Thus leaf by leaf We turn, Until we are
brought face to face with the stern work-day,
and here we find the interest tagging. The
is are too carefully crossed, and the rs have a
little round dot over each as if they of more
Importance now than little while ago, and
we begin to perceive that the work doesn't full
| ell the promise. The measure seems to length
ell and we are forced to notice that the harmo-
ny isn't so striking, nor is the rhythme SO nll,-
steal. But then we arc only at the foundation
of Fancy's structure and. of course, are too
near the ground to Judge how closely the plan
will be followed. Somehow or another,
though, we don't like those long dashes at the
end of the line, and wonder to ourselves if the
Wort, ''toil'' doesn't appear too often. 70 be
sure it rliy..scs with ''soil' and sbroil,' but
then there is q nce..less repetition, and. be
sides, those terms sound shoe..,ingy coarse to
polite ears and rather transcend even poetic
license. Gradually we are brought to realize
that Fancy's photograph has been changed in
to a sober silhouette, and the dark profile is a
Kissing mockery on the picture she has paint
ed, and we also discover the treachery Of her
song-she has proven a false prophecies and
we bind her to the chariot of Hope and drag
her in disgrace over the thorny path we are
treadng. Taking fresh energy we turn an
other page and find Oh the opposite side the
heading
HARVEST.
But the lines are indistiuet. Here and there
we see all erasure, then a blank and then a
blot; and that is not als the sentences are few
and far between, and the poetry has dw:ndled
down into the most Indifferent prose. Now
| and then we come across page which seems
| to partake somewhat Of the old bouyancy. We
cannot imagine why they should appear
|
threatening cloud We call Memory to our
aid and she tells lis that they are good actions
bread returning after many days-cast OH
the waters with scarce a thought of their merit
or destination little deeds of kindness which,
when all else have failed, will send their crys-
| tai waters into the murkey current of our lives
"a silver border gladdening their passage to
500 RIltt l,n is horv IF
| what Barren regrets, multiplied failures,
blasted hopes. fruit4css labors, bright visions
| faded. Here the pages are blurred, anG Hope
seems to have proven almost as unreliable as
Fancy but we will not let her go; no, we will
yoke her with Will and gather in the scattered
shocks. Now the interest revives, and though
the letters are heavily shaded, for the hand has
pressed wearily, there is still signs CT return
ing Vim.
We turn another leaf and long lines of fig
ures present themselves-the debit and credit
OF the year. How eagerly we sean those col
umns and how the brow darkens and the hand |
lrembles, for the credit side Is a long list of
ciphers, and we turn to Reason for an expla-
nation. Cold, unflattering she points to the |
granary, where, with impartial hand, she has
separated the grain from the cllaff, thrown out |
the blasted heads, scattered the flowers to the !
wind weighed the boarded treasures and found |
them wanting. Just here the first tear dims
the pages aye, it looks as if those empty gar
ners were the dead letter office of life, as we
call to mind how happy we were when we |
wrote
Those poor, foolish records of all those emotions
Whose pain, when recorded. seemed bliss"
We sealed them with a smile, stamped them |
with the image OF Confidence and sent them }
forth to carry glad tidings to others. Days
heightened into weeks, weeks into months and !
still no reply came, and now they are returned |
to lis, bearing the marks Of the worlds rough
usase-their mission unaecomplished-h
only served as objects of impairment inquiry
or heartless eerision. There are ashes on those
last leaves, bat we fold them carefully now.
and as the clock STRIKES twelve ON the .31st of
December, with firm, steady hand write
Are these nothing more than the hand they make
{ weary,
The heart they have saadened, the life they leave
drearys"
Yes, for ere we cut TING cable from the sinking
wreck we secured its treasures. They are the