Mind Amongst the Spindles — The Lock of Grey Hair; Lament of the little Hunchback; This World is not our Home; Dignity of Labor

C. B.

THE LOCK OF GRAY HAIR.

Touching and simple memento of departed worth and affection!

how mournfully sweet are the recollections thou awakenest in the heart, as I gaze upon thee--shorn after death had stamped her loved features with the changeless hue of the grave.

How vividly memory recalls the time when, in childish sportiveness and affection, I arranged this little tress upon the venerable forehead of my grandmother!

Though Time had left his impress there, a majestic beauty yet rested upon thy brow; for age had no power to quench the light of benevolence that beamed from thine eye, nor wither the smile of goodness that animated thy features.

Again do I seem to listen to the mild voice, whose accents had ever power to subdue the waywardness of my spirit, and hush to calmness the wild and turbulent passions of my nature.

--Though ten summers have made the grass green upon thy grave, and the white rose burst in beauty above thine honored head, thy name is yet green in our memory, and thy virtues have left a deathless fragrance in the hearts of thy children.

Though she of whom I tell claimed not kindred with the "high-born of earth"--though the proud descent of titled ancestry marked not her name--yet the purity of her spotless character, the practical usefulness of her life, her firm adherence to duty, her high and holy submission to the will of Heaven, in every conflict, shed a radiance more resplendent than the glittering coronet's hues, more enduring than the wreath that encircles the head of genius.

It was no lordly dome of other climes, nor yet of our far-off sunny south, that called her mistress; but among the granite hills of New Hampshire (my own father-land) was her humble home.

Well do I remember the morning when she related to me (a sportive girl of thirteen) the events of her early days.

--At her request, I was her companion during her accustomed morning walk about her own homestead.

During our ramble, she suddenly stopped, and looked intently down upon the green earth, leaving me in silent wonder at what could so strongly rivet her attention.

At length she raised her eyes, and pointing to an ancient hollow in the earth, nearly concealed by rank herbage, she said, "that spot is the dearest to me on earth."

I looked around, then into her face for an explanation, seeing nothing unusually attractive about the place.

But ah!

how many cherished memories came up at that moment!

The tear of fond recollection stood in her eye as she spoke:--"On this spot I passed the brightest hours of my existence."

To my eager inquiry, Did you not always live in the large white house yonder?

She replied, "No, my child.

Fifty years ago, upon this spot stood a rude dwelling, composed of logs.

Here I passed the early days of my marriage, and here my noble first-born drew his first breath."

In answer to my earnest entreaty to tell me all about it, she seated herself upon the large broad stone which had been her ancient hearth, and commenced her story.

"It was a bright midsummer eve when your grandfather, whom you never saw, brought me here, his chosen and happy bride.

On that morning had we plighted our faith at the altar--that morning, with all the feelings natural to a girl of eighteen, I bade adieu to the home of my childhood, and with a fond mother's last kiss yet warm upon my cheek, commenced my journey with my husband towards his new home in the wilderness.

Slowly on horseback we proceeded on our way, through the green forest path, whose deep winding course was directed by incisions upon the trees left by the axe of the sturdy woodsman.

Yet no modern bride, in her splendid coach, decked in satin, orange-flowers, and lace--on the way to her stately city mansion, ever felt her heart beat higher than did my own on that day.

For as I looked upon the manly form of him beside me, as with careful hand he guided my bridal rein--or met the fond glance of his full dark eye, I felt that his was a changeless love.

"Thus we pursued our lonely way through the lengthening forest, where Nature reigned almost in her primitive wildness and beauty.

Now and then a cultivated patch, with a newly-erected cottage, where sat the young mother, hushing with her low wild song the babe upon her bosom, with the crash of the distant falling trees, proclaimed it the home of the emigrant.

"Twilight had thrown her soft shade over the earth: the bending foliage assumed a deeper hue; the wild wood bird singing her last note, as we emerged from the forest to a spot termed by the early settlers 'a clearing.'

It was an enclosure of a few acres, where the preceding year had stood in its pride the stately forest-tree.

In the centre, surrounded by tall stalks of Indian corn, waving their silken tassels in the night-breeze, stood the lowly cot which was to be my future home.

Beneath yon aged oak, which has been spared to tell of the past, we dismounted from our horses, and entered our rude dwelling.

All was silent within and without, save the low whisper of the wind as it swept through the forest.

But blessed with youth, health, love, and hope, what had we to fear?

Not that the privations and hardships incident to the early emigrant were unknown to us--but we heeded them not.

"The early dawn and dewy eve saw us unremitting in our toil, and Heaven crowned our labors with blessings.

'The wilderness began to blossom as the rose,' and our barns were filled with plenty.

"But there was coming a time big with the fate of these then infant colonies.

The murmur of discontent, long since heard in our large commercial ports, grew longer and louder, beneath repeated acts of British oppression.

We knew the portentous cloud every day grew darker.

In those days our means of intelligence were limited to the casual visitation of some traveller from abroad to our wilderness.

"But uncertain and doubtful as was its nature, it was enough to rouse the spirit of patriotism in many a manly heart; and while the note of preparation loudly rang in the bustling thoroughfares, its tones were not unheard among these granite rocks.

The trusty firelock was remounted, and hung in polished readiness over each humble door.

The shining pewter was transformed to the heavy bullet, awaiting the first signal to carry death to the oppressor.

"It was on the memorable 17th of June, 1775, that your grandfather was at his usual labor in a distant part of his farm: suddenly there fell upon his ear a sound heavier than the crash of the falling tree: echo answered echo along these hills; he knew the hour had come--that the flame had burst forth which blood alone could extinguish.

His was not a spirit to slumber within sound of that battle-peal.

He dropped his implements, and returned to his house.

Never shall I forget the expression of his face as he entered.

--There was a wild fire in his eye--his cheek was flushed--the veins upon his broad forehead swelled nigh to bursting.

He looked at me--then at his infant-boy--and for a moment his face was convulsed.

But soon the calm expression of high resolve shone upon his features.

"Then I felt that what I had long secretly dreaded was about to be realized.

For awhile the woman struggled fearfully within me--but the strife was brief; and though I could not with my lips say 'go,' in my heart I responded, 'God's will be done'--for as such I could but regard the sacred cause in which all for which we lived was staked.

I dwell not on the anguished parting, nor on the lonely desolation of heart which followed.

A few hasty arrangements, and he, in that stern band known as the Green Mountain Boys, led by the noble Stark, hurried to the post of danger.

On the plains of Bennington he nobly distinguished himself in that fierce conflict with the haughty Briton and mercenary foe.

"Long and dreary was the period of my husband's absence; but the God of my fathers forsook me not.

To Him I committed my absent one, in the confidence that He would do all things well.

Now and then, a hurried scrawl, written perhaps on the eve of an expected battle, came to me in my lonely solitude like the 'dove of peace' and consolation--for it spoke of undying affection and unshaken faith in the ultimate success of that cause for which he had left all.

"But he did return.

Once more he was with me.

I saw him press his first-born to his bosom, and receive the little dark-eyed one, whom he had never yet seen, with new fondness to his paternal arms.

He lived to witness the glorious termination of that struggle, the events of which all so well know; to see the 'stars and stripes' waving triumphantly in the breeze, and to enjoy for a brief season the rich blessings of peace and independence.

But ere the sere and yellow leaf of age was upon his brow, the withering hand of disease laid his noble head in the dust.

As the going down of the sun, which foretells a glorious rising, so was his death.

Many years have gone by, since he was laid in his quiet resting-place, where, in a few brief days, I shall slumber sweetly by his side."

Such was her unvarnished story; and such is substantially the story of many an ancient mother of New England.

Yet while the pen of history tells of the noble deeds of the patriot fathers, it records little of the days of privation and toil of the patriot mothers--of their nights of harassing anxiety and uncomplaining sorrow.

But their virtues remain written upon the hearts of their daughters, in characters that perish not.

Let not the rude hand of degeneracy desecrate the hallowed shrine of their memory.

THERESA.

[Illustration: Decoration] LAMENT OF THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK.

Oh, ladies, will you listen to a little orphan's tale?

And pity her whose youthful voice must breathe so sad a wail;

And shrink not from the wretched form obtruding on your view.

As though the heart which in it dwells must be as loathsome too.

Full well I know that mine would be a strange repulsive mind, Were the outward form an index true of the soul within it shrined;

But though I am so all devoid of the loveliness of youth, Yet deem me not as destitute of its innocence and truth.

And ever in this hideous frame I strive to keep the light Of faith in God, and love to man, still shining pure and bright;

Though hard the task, I often find, to keep the channel free Whence all the kind affections flow to those who love not me.

I sometimes take a little child quite softly on my knee, I hush it with my gentlest tones, and kiss it tenderly;

But my kindest words will not avail, my form cannot be screened, And the babe recoils from my embrace, as though I were a fiend.

I sometimes, in my walks of toil, meet children at their play;

For a moment will my pulses fly, and I join the band so gay;

But they depart with nasty steps, while their lips and nostrils curl, Nor e'en their childhood's sports will share with the little crooked girl But once it was not thus with me: I was a dear-loved child;

A mother's kiss oft pressed my brow, a father on me smiled;

No word was ever o'er me breathed, but in affection's tone, For I to them was very near--their cherish'd, only one.

But sad the change which me befel, when they were laid to sleep, Where the earth-worms o'er their mouldering forms their noisome revels keep;

For of the orphan's hapless fate there were few or none to care, And burdens on my back were laid a child should never bear.

And now, in this offensive form, their cruelty is viewed-- For first upon me came disease--and deformity ensued: Woe!

woe to her, for whom not even this life's earliest stage Could be redeemed from the bended form and decrepitude of age.

And yet of purest happiness I have some transient gleams;

'Tis when, upon my pallet rude, I lose myself in dreams: The gloomy present fades away; the sad past seems forgot;

And in those visions of the night mine is a blissful lot.

The dead then come and visit me: I hear my father's voice;

I hear that gentle mother's tones, which makes my heart rejoice;

Her hand once more is softly placed upon my aching brow, And she soothes my every pain away, as if an infant now.

But sad is it to wake again, to loneliness and fears;

To find myself the creature yet of misery and tears;

And then, once more, I try to sleep, and know the thrilling bliss To see again my father's smile, and feel my mother's kiss.

And sometimes, then, a blessed boon has unto me been given-- An entrance to the spirit-world, a foretaste here of heaven;

I have heard the joyous anthems swell, from voice and golden lyre, And seen the dearly loved of earth join in that gladsome choir.

And I have dropped this earthly frame, this frail disgusting clay, And, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away;

I have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright, Which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living light.

I have joined the swelling chorus of the holy glittering bands Who ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their hands: But the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the morn, And the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and song.

I care not for their mockery now--the thought disturbs me not, That, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot;

But I would gladly welcome here some slight reprieve from pain, And I'd murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache again.

Full well I know this ne'er can be, till I with peace am blest, Where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at rest;

For the body shall commingle with its kindred native dust, And the soul return for evermore to the "Holy One and Just."

LETTY.

[Illustration: Decoration] THIS WORLD IS NOT OUR HOME.

How difficult it is for the wealthy and proud to realize that they must die, and mingle with the common earth!

Though a towering monument may mark the spot where their lifeless remains repose, their heads will lie as low as that of the poorest peasant.

All their untold gold cannot reprieve them for one short day.

When Death places his relentless hand upon them, and as their spirit is fast passing away, perhaps for the first time the truth flashes upon their mind, that this world is not their home; and a thrill of agony racks their frame at the thought of entering that land where all is uncertainty to them.

It may be that they have never humbled themselves before the great Lawgiver and Judge, and their hearts, alas!

have not been purified and renewed by that grace for which they never supplicated.

And as the vacant eye wanders around the splendidly furnished apartment, with its gorgeous hangings and couch of down, how worthless it all seems, compared with that peace of mind which attends "the pure in heart!"

The aspirant after fame would fain believe this world was his home, as day by day he twines the laurel-wreath for his brow, and fondly trusts it will be unfading in its verdure; and as the applause of a world, that to him appears all bright and beautiful, meets his ear, he thinks not of Him who resigned his life on the cross for suffering humanity--he thinks of naught but the bubble he is seeking; and when he has obtained it, it has lost all its brilliancy--for the world has learned to look with indifference upon the bright flowers he has scattered so profusely on all sides, and his friends, one by one, become alienated and cold, or bestow their praise upon some new candidate who may have entered the arena of fame.

How his heart shrinks within him, to think of the long hours of toil by the midnight lamp--of health destroyed--of youth departed--of near and dear ties broken by a light careless word, that had no meaning!

How bitterly does he regret that he has thrown away all the warm and better feelings of his heart upon the fading things of earth!

How deeply does he feel that he has slighted God's holy law--for, in striving after worldly honors, he had forgotten that this world was not his home; and while the rainbow tints of prosperity gleamed in his pathway, he had neglected to cultivate the fadeless wreath that cheers the dying hour!

And now the low hollow cough warns him of the near approach of that hour beyond which all to him is darkness and gloom; and as he tosses on the bed of pain and languishing, lamenting that all the bright visions of youth had so soon vanished away, the cold world perchance passes in review before him.

He beholds the flushed cheek of beauty fade, and the star of fame fall from the brow of youth.

He marks the young warrior on the field of battle, fighting bravely, while the banner of stars and stripes waves proudly over his head; and while thinking of the glory he shall win, a ball enters his heart.

--He gazes upon an aged sire, as he bends over the lifeless form of his idolized child, young and fair as the morning, just touched by the hand of death; she was the light of his home, the last of many dear ones; and he wondered why he was spared, and the young taken.

Though the cup was bitter, he drank it.

Again he turned his eyes from the world, whereon everything is written, "fading away."

Yes, wealth, beauty, fame, glory, honor, friendship, and oh!

must it be said that even love, too, fades?

Almost in despair, he exclaimed, "Is there aught that fades not?"

And a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "There is God's love which never fades; this world is not your home; waste not the short fragment of your life in vain regrets, but rather prepare for that dissolution which is the common lot of all; be ready, therefore, to pass to that bourne from which there is no return, before you enter the presence of Him whose name is Love."

"Then ask not life, but joy to know That sinless they in heaven shall stand;

That Death is not a cruel foe, To execute a wise command.

'Tis ours to ask, 'tis God's to give.

-- We live to die--and die to live."

BEATRICE.

[Illustration: Decoration] DIGNITY OF LABOR.

From whence originated the idea, that it was derogatory to a lady's dignity, or a blot upon the female character, to labor?

and who was the first to say sneeringly, "Oh, she _works_ for a living?"

Surely, such ideas and expressions ought not to grow on republican soil.

The time has been when ladies of the first rank were accustomed to busy themselves in domestic employment.

Homer tells us of princesses who used to draw water from the springs, and wash with their own hands the finest of the linen of their respective families.

The famous Lucretia used to spin in the midst of her attendants; and the wife of Ulysses, after the siege of Troy, employed herself in weaving, until her husband returned to Ithaca.

And in later times, the wife of George the Third, of England, has been represented as spending a whole evening in hemming pocket-handkerchiefs, while her daughter Mary sat in the corner, darning stockings.

Few American fortunes will support a woman who is above the calls of her family; and a man of sense, in choosing a companion to jog with him through all the up-hills and down-hills of life, would sooner choose one who _had_ to work for a living, than one who thought it beneath her to soil her pretty hands with manual labor, although she possessed her thousands.

To be able to earn one's own living by laboring with the hands, should be reckoned among female accomplishments; and I hope the time is not far distant when none of my countrywomen will be ashamed to have it known that they are better versed in useful than they are in ornamental accomplishments.

C. B.

[Illustration: Decoration] THE VILLAGE CHRONICLE.