The St. Cloud journal. [volume] (St. Cloud, Minn.) 1866-1876, 1875-04-22
CHAPTER II.

CHATTER Ii. 49,:
Ten years had slipped away, and I
was now in my sixteenth year. Of
course, my little cabinet picture had
been joined by many others, It was
now but one in an extensive gallery;
and the modest little gem, dimmed
with dust, and hidden by larger
pieces, had not been thought of for
many day.. ..... ..-....it
External circumstances had remain
ed much the same with us; only one
great change, the death Of my dear
grandmother. having occurred in tn E
family. My aunt presided over her
fathers household, and the admirable
order and good taste which peryadea
every department. bore witness how
we'll she understood combining the
elements of a home. =
Aunt Linny, now twenty-seven
years Of age, had lost nothing Of her
former attractiveness. The brilliant,
impulsive girl had but ripened into
the still more lovely woman, Her
cheek was not faded nor her eye dim:
med. There was the same frankness,
the same heart in her glance. her
glance, her smile, the warm pressure
of her hand, but tempered by expert
ence, reflection: and selt-control. One
felt that she could be loved and trust
ed with the whole heart and judg-
ment. Her personal attractions, and
yet more the charm of her sensible,
genial, and racy conversation, brought
to our house many pleasant visitors,
and made her the sparkling centre of
every circle into which she could be
drawn. But it was rarely that she
could be beguiled from home; for,
since her mothers death, she had de-
voted herself heart and soul to her
widowed father.
The relation between myself and
my aunt was somewhat peculiar.
Neither Of us having associates of our
own age in the family, I had become
her companion, and even friend, to a
degree which would have been inn
possible in other circumstances. She
had scarcely outgrown the freshness
and simplicity of childhood when I
first came to live with her, and my
mind and feelings had expanded
rapidly under the constant stimulus
of a nature so full of rich life so that
at the date [ speak of, we lived to-
gether more as sisters than as aunt
and niece. An inexpressible charm
rests on those days, when we read,
wrote, rambled together, shared the
same room, and had every pleasure,
every trouble in common. All shov
of authority over me gradually melted
away but her influence with me
was still unbounded, for I loved her
with the passionate earnes ness Of q
first, full-hearted friendship. But tc
proceed with my story. .,.>.,.
One sweet afternoon in early sum.
mer, we two were sitting alone. The
windows towards the garden were
open, and the breath of 1ilacs and ros
es stole in. I had been reading te
her some verses Of my own, celebrat
ing the praise of first love as an i'm
perishable sentiment. My. fancy haf
just been crazed with the poetry O.
L. f. L., who was then shining a.
the "bright particular star" in th'
literary heayens.
"The lines are very pretty" sale
my aunt, ''but I trust it's only poet
izing, Kate; I should be sorry indeed
to have you join the school of roman
tic misses who think first love such .
killing matter"
"But, Aunty," I cried, "what /
horribly prosy, matter.offact affai
life would be in any other view! :.
believe poetry itself would become ex
tinct.''
$50, then, if a woman is disappoint
ed in first love, she is bound to die 70
the benefit of poetry
"But just think, Aunt Linny,-i
Ophelia, instead of going mad 8
prettily, and dying in way to breal
everybody's heart, had soberly Sc
herself to consider that there were a
fine fish yet in the sea as ever wer
caught, and that it was best, there
fore, to cheer up and wait for bette
times! Frightfulp
"Never trouble your little heat
Kate, with fear that there will not b
Ophelias enough, as long as the worl
stands. But I wouldn't be one, if
were you, unless I could 'bespeak
a Shakespeare to do me into poetry
; That would be an inducement, I a
:; low. How would you fancy being
sukey Fay, Kate F' - -. .s'!::.1
"Oh, the poor old wretch, with h
rags and dirt and gin-bottle! II,
she story?' >:."l
"Just as romantic a one as }Opheli
only she lacks poet. But, in sob
truth, Katy, why is there not as trr
poetry in battling with feeling as@
yielding to it? To me there seen
something far more lofty and beaut
f full in bearing to i've, under o's ocssrta
circumstances, thaneih daring % die