The age-herald. [volume] (Birmingham, Ala.) 1897-1902, 1899-11-30
THANKSGIVING
AND THE MIRROR
BY LUorEN JULIEN WALKER.

There Is a face In a little mirror that
rests before me tonight which brings back
through the shadowy mists of the years
that are done a glad Thanksgiving of the
songful time of the younger hours of life
radiant of hopes and passions that slum-
ber now amongst the things that answer
not save only to the deft touch and weird
notes of a memory attuned to long-gone
joys. A right beautiful face, bearing in
1t youths brightness, its hopes, its prom
ises and its rollicking romping. Great
brown eyes, lips parted in exuitant exalta-
ton, set in oval face and Swallowed by
a mass of black hair sheltering a head
that rests upon neck springing like dull
alabaster from a figure the like of which
God gives to but few women who break
soothe hearts upon this green globe
rolling in space with it's wealth of beauty
and goodness and virtue
Softly falls the early autumnal sunshine
upon the fair fields of fair Fife, with their
plenteous burden of the harvest's heaven
sent richness. Falls upon the ear the song
of men and maidens in the harvest-time,
borne upon the air redolent of the gifts
given to them that nurse from the earth
its golden abundance. The reaper reaps
and them that garner gather the ripeness
of year ripe in fruit of reward to them
that hied to the sowing at dawn of day
and returned in the eventime of the sea-
son abundantly blessed
Upon the terrace we waited-Mary and
and the others-waited for the harvesters
to come up from the harvest field. 1t was
not unhappy waiting; it was waiting in the
full hood-time of loves hopes, loves wild
longings, loves unreasoning demands when
love was young, the world young, and the
altar just over the hill by the burnside,
where the waters laughed their way down
to the wide sea of The North, never to re-
turn for us whilst hope lived and love
peated its uttle-great story with infinite
tenderness, infinite sweetness infinite joy,
infinite promise, as when the prattle of a
little child stirred hearts that reckoned not
its meaning.
BY and by the harvesters came trooping
along the farm road, laughing, laughing,
laughing All, God! the world was laugh
ing in that glad afternoon, where in that
land and in that time it was all afternoon.
Ii was the harvest supper for them that
had labored. 1t was the Thanksgiving up
on the farm in far Fife. The harvest bread
was brought out, the harvest cheese, the
harvest roasts. the harvest beer, and upon
the great stones of the threshing-foor
these Things were offered after thanks had
been given to Him that winnows unto the
last grain hidden in the last chaff. There
were toasts and fun and speeches and
songs, and all was joy. The space was
cleared and dancing was begun, the gentle
folk and the harvesters running rich RI
valry for romping rounds. 1t was very
joyous time.
The dance was done, and in the farm
house were spoken some goodbyes that
could not be spoken amongst the harvest
ers The conditions of the season suffered
men and maidens to loiter homewards as
they wished under the great silver moon.
Mary and the man went across the helds
together, even where the harvesters had
harvested before the night fell. They We're
merely the cleaners of the precious grains
of the heart-harvest; and, and-oh, any one
may guess something of what occurred dur
ing the lettering across the fields.
A child at play had left little mirror by
the Wayside The maiden saw it and lifting
it. she passed it to him, saying: Thou
shalt always see face there not thy own.
You love met
And so they kept their pace, and having
reached the ivy-fringed doorway in the an
gle of the home of her race, beyond which
mortal even he might not at that hour pass,
thew stood in the shadows-loving In the
shadows. Suddenly, as if there had come
some flash of light from the heavens,
moonbeam fell upon the little mirror, and
her face was there. Thou shalt always see
a face there not thy own. You love mel!
she spoke low, and upon them fell the hush
of a voiceless passion.
Tonight, as the hour of the dead stnkes'
there steals across the little morror mist
that is not of this earth. On, wondrous
mist-what means 1t! In the mirror there
was a promise.
The mirror is broken. Twelve years ago
tonight she passed to the Unseeabie
A,,ths obaap Godden's