Year: 1868

| lFrom the Farmers Chronicle.l


A Curious Love The Missing
| Links.


Dreary December days, with their
snow and sieet and rain, have an infiu-
ence Of their own that leads us toward
a peculiar enjoyment that we feel at no
other time. The desire to hear of and
see the outside world leaves us. Books
come nearer to us; their companion
ship is almost like that of living per-
sons; the sentiment and wit and hu-
NOR stand prominently forward; the
words seem written in a bolder hand
on such a day than on one of your
common days.


We may not care to work on these
dreary days. Minnie will lay aside
her almost finished dress; John will
postpone his visit to the city, but will
hesitate to touch an implement in the
shop; old Uncle Joe, always busy max
ing an ak handle or a broom, or
mending wash-tub, cares only to re-
cline in the rocking-ehair in the corner,
doing, dreaming, listening, it may be
musing; Charlie won't whirl his top
nor mend his sled, but sprawls upon
the floor, lying upon his back, framing
fairy pictures or reading odd stories;
Addie coils himself, like privileged
cat, on the skirts of his mothers dress,
as she sits at her knitting; little Mel
lie goes to sleep with her doll in her
arms, and the cat forgets the hole in
the corner to such an extent that dar
ing little mouse actually runs across
Uncle Joe's foot, sir. The cold seems
to have paralyzed the desire to do, and
left only the capacity to enjoy; to have
taken away all uneasiness as to being
idle, and left feeling of general don't
carativeness as to results.


On such day we love to gather
about us old letters, to dive in
among their records, to gather up the
threads of narrative, and to fit the
scraps with what we know ourselves
into an unbroken story. A little is
told here in letter from. an old man;
a little there in note from sprightly
young miss; an explanatory flash here
from scientific young gent, lighting
the whole expanse for moment, then
leaving all darker than before; sunset
like glow at another point is impaired
by the letter from some Dig-hearted
man; stormy darkness made to sur
round all by the letter of some dis
appointed dyspeptic; the story tinted
in rainbow tints by some enthusiastic
girl. Put all these together, and the
patchwork story Of experience and of
life is we'll told.


Style tells so much in writing, and
clings so tenaciously to man, you need
not always look at the signature to
learn whether the writer be young or
old, boy or girl, woman or man, stu
dent or professor, lawyer or doctor,
editor or merchant.


Each calling has its pet phrases, and
each individual has his favorite mode
of expression, his certain words to use
at certain times, his channel marked
out in which he sails smoothly, out of
which he founders terribly. Letters
that you received years agO-the wri-
ters of which may be forgotten-pre-
serve the writers identity, and recall
each characteristic.


On these dreamy December days,
we revel among books and old letters,
and new ones, too, with an interest that
is something like that with which we
listen to frst-class orator: the deeper
we go, the longer we stay-the strong
er the chain that binds us to the place
and the matter before us. Yesterday
l found among my old papers, bur-
die of letters received during a six
weeks sickness. Unopened were all,
and the secrets were all my own
Here were the words of friends, spo-
ken two or three months ago, still
unspoken to me. They were from per-
sons in whom felt strong interest,
and it was with reproachful start that
acknowledged that l had forgotten
that they must be performing their diff
ferent parts in life, instead of resting
quietly in the cottage home among the
mountains of West Virginia.


The first that was opened was from
fairy-like little Miss, the sister of our
maniac soldier of old, who, when saw
her, was frail and fair, rising with un
certain movements from the mysterious
weakness of long term of sickness.
How naturally we turn first to wo-
mans hand. She wrote two months
ago from home in her girlish way
1--WE are all at home, and l am so glad.
The darkness is all gone now. Broth
er is not with US, but then he is well,
and you cannot understand how much
this means to us. The old house is SO
different, so bright, SO comfortable
l am not afraid now TO go into the gar
ret or the cellar, ev... at midnight
Six months ago I would not venture
into either place at midday. l was not
afraid, but there was such fear in my
heart. that / was very weak. | take
delight now in going into every dark
corner; the fear is gone and L am
strong.


"MY brothers. good friend and old
comrade is very near and dear to me.
feel that you know this. l am blessed
in being loved, and having my love ap-
proved by all who know and love me.
We are not engaged as the saying is.
am SO young, you know, and he says
he has much to accomplish before ne
marries. How foolish men are; as if |,
as his wife, couldn't help him to ac-
complish what he thinks he must DO
alone.


"Brother is apparently very happy.
That young lady friend of ours in the
mountains respects him very mnch for
saving her life the day Of the storm,
you know. He loves her ! know, but