Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1876-10-18
A Girls First Lover.

Others may come after him-others usually
do come after him, for seldom is it that
girl marries her first love-but to none does
she ever attach that strange intangible inter
est, sacred with never expressed pathos,
which attaches TO her first sweetheart. Her
memory of him is like the faint, delicate
perfume which still clings about that first
wild rose of summer that he gave her during
the first iete-a-teie walk that they ever took
together in the woods. How well she re-
members it all 1t was the first summer af-
ter she left school. 1t was little out-of-
the-way summer resort where she was stay
ing with party of friends, and where he
chanced to come, too, and after meeting her,
fingered.
She was little huttered to find herself
walking alone with him, quite by accident,
of course and both tried to keep upa lively
and natural conversation, aud as a conse-
quence it was perfectly absurd, somewhat
constrained and altogether fragmentary.
Then he saw this rose, the only one upon
bush full of buds that grew close to the
moss-grown trunk of fallen tree just over
the source of tiny stream of water that
wound, like tangled thread, in and out
among the trees lie gathered and gave it
to her with half shy, half laughing look
to be unconscious and with remark in
tended TO be sprightly.
And she took it between blush and a
smile, with swift up-lock from eyes that
were busily playing hide-andseek under the
becoming shelter of long lashes.
She tucked it in at the waistband of her
dress, just as she would have done any other
rose, but how careful she was not by any
sudden movement TO deiiower it of its simple
circlet OF pale pink leaves.
lie does not know-he will never know
that as soon rs she was alone in her ROOM
with the door locked, she drew it carefully
from her belt and kissed it daintily, though
with repressed passion, before she exalted II
10 the position of honor in her pet vase, q
bit of bJomerie, Just big enough to hold this
one flower fifty, aud in honor of it filled
carefully with clear, cold water by her own
pretty fresh fingers, as rosily tipped as those
Of Aurora in the act of drawing aside tn,
curtains of the dawn.
What was the unspoken compact between
them that caused her, standing before hei
glass in her simple white dress that SAINT
evening, to pose the flower shyly among thu
FURNISHED waves of her hair
win she ever forget how his eyes thanked
her? VIII she ever forget the night OF
which she wore it 2 Was there ever anothe
night like thatY win there ever be again
For her no. For every girl who has ye
10 meet her first lover, yes. There will b'
just one such for each girl, but never an
other.
Was it the earth she trod on How
beautiful everything was As if the worl,
were Just new-made The lights, the mu
sic, the gay chatter, bright smiles, ringinl
laughter And when she danced with hin
she seemed TO have wings to her feet
Then, at last they were alone together il
the cool, fragrant, dewy darkness outside
and 10 be together, TO be arm in arm, 10 hea
each others voices, that was all they care'
for There was no other world for then
that night. They were separated from on
common earth by such a swift-ilowing it'd
of deep but unspoLen delight. Unspoken
because young affection is too sacred TO
words. First love is born dumb, and learn
speech but slowly. Deep down in eacl
heart was the raptured consciousness of Low
ing and of being loved by the other, whicl
is worth lifetime of " love yous."
II brimmed each heart with a suiiicnl
delight even as Aowercup is brimmeC
} with dew. The sun will drink the dew up
by-and-by, even rs the world will dry up thi
} fountain Of innocent gladness. But this dew
has been in the flower-cup and in the girl
heart-First Love, whose memory never de
parts.
The wild rose in her hair was witherec
when she again stood before her glass, viii
flushed cheeks and new brightness in hel
eyes. But she laid it-as carefully as ;
young mother might lay her firstborn in IL
crade-between two pages of Tennyson
upon poem that he had read TO her the day
before. IL rests there still.
To a careless observer what matters
worn copy of Tennyson with witherec
wild rose pressed between its leaves
But TO her it is all that is left, may be, Of
the purest and tenderest romance of girl;
life 1t is the first gift of her first lover +
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