Staunton vindicator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1860-1896, 1888-03-02

one says, am ungratefuI, tor 1 am happy,
and have thanked no one And still more
to be together, and to walk arm in arm.
Stay like this-it seems light thing this
moment; ah, WE'LL love you, my darling,
love youl"
She leaned her head upon my arm and
chung closely to me-
sGood heaven!" she cried; eff 1 should lose
your
She spoke in a low voice, as if in fear
Was it the night or the forest which fright
ened her, or perchance her own words.
81 have often dreamed" she went on, that
I had spoken to you the last farewell. YOU
would cry both of you, and should press so
closely to you that we should seem but one.
These are only dreams, you say, but | care
not, since they have shown me that live in
you, my darlings. What was that that
cracked? Did you see something cross our
path!'
My only answer was to fold her in my arms
and press her close to my heart. We went
on walking, but it was impossible to renew
our conversation. Now and then she pressed
my arm and stopped me, saying:
"Hush Listen! No, it is nothing"
At last we saw through the trees a little
light, which disappeared from time to time,
now hidden by the trunk of a tree, and then
coming into view again. 1t was the light
that waited for us behind our window curtain.
1t was time; we were wet through.
brought huge log for the fire, and when
the bright flames rose, we sat down in the
great chimney corner. took off her shoes
and stockings, and held her feet toward the
fire. shielding them with my hands.
''Thank you, my dear, thank you;" she
said, leaning on my shoulder and looking at
+l,c+4 l,<,t
"What was that which you were saying in
the woods, little oneF' said I, when she was
warm again:
''You were thinking of that9 Twas afraid,
that is all, and when one is afraid, one sees
phantoms."
Then she threw her arms around me, and,
laughing, said:
''Come to bed, woodman."
That was, know too well, our last walk.
Therefore do | remember it, How often
since have l Travelled that road in the sober
quiet of closing day. How often have |
passed the ferns that her feet had pressed,
and parted the grasses with my hands, poor
fool that was, to find the last print of her
footstep How often have stopped in the
glade, under the beeches that showered their
drops upon us, and fancied that I saw the
swing of her skirts among the shadows. I
seemed to hear her little cries of alarm, and,
coming back in the evening air, have found
upon my way all the memories that she has
left there, from the watch dogs distant bark
to the cracking of the branches, from the
trembling of her arm to the kiss that I gave
her.
Once I went back to the wood cutters hut
I saw once more the good people, the smoky
cabin, the little bench on which we sat- and
asked to drink that might look at the glass
which her lips had touched.
''And the little lady who made the omelet
so well? She is not i'll, surely?' said the good
wife.
Without doubt she saw the tears which
filed my eyes, for she said nothing more, and
l went out.
So it is everywhere except in my heart,
where time cannot touch her; all that was
she is effaced, blott~l out, obscured.
1t is natures law, but it is cruel My poor
child! He also learns to forget her, and
when I ask him, in spite of myself, "Do you
remember your mother, dear, as she did this
OF that2' he answers yes; but I know, alas,
that he has orgotten.-Translated for The
New York Pest from the French of Gustav
Droz, by Watey Learned.
People who suffer q bad odor in the breath
should use, as a wash mixture made by
adding teaspoonful the tincture of myrrh
to tnmblerful of water. This remedy is
thought to retard decay of the teeth.