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Vol. 6 —No. 6.
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For Woman’s Work.
THE GIRL I LOVED.
BY SHILOH PAYNE LANGFORD.
was a quaint, sweet-faced old
()M man ’ and we all loved him for the
v good deeds he was always doing
in his quiet way. Though he was
bent and wrinkled, there was a look in his
face as of perennial youth; a sort of glory,
reflected from a romance of his early man
hood, shone round him and clung to him;
what it was we did not know. But one
day, alter a short illness, he passed away,
anr) after we had laid him away to rest
ATHENS, GEORGIA, JUNE, 1893.
we found among his papers his life’s story,
as he had written it not long before death
called him.
“‘A song for the girl I love—
God love her!’
So thought 1 one fair June morning as
I stood with my love in the deep bay
window. Behind us the cool shaded
rooms; in the back parlor some one was
playing a sad, weird march, which sent a
thrill of horror through me at the time.
Before us lay the world, with its warm
sunshine, its emerald flower-strewn carpet,
its trees full of singing birds; and up, up,
above all, the blue sky, with white clouds
like angel-boats sailing across it. Around
us were the lace draperies, shutting us in;
just “we two, and w« two for aye.” Or;
“WHILE I BREATHE, I HOPE, I WORK.”
my love’s breast a great knot of violets,
whose dainty, sweet perfume filled the
window. Just the scent of a violet brings
the past, that sacred love-past of my
youth, all back to me. And there rises
before my dim old eyes a vision of my
fair, sweet love, with her wine-brown eyes,
golden hair, and red, curved lips, as she
looked that day. And then there appears
another vision, of a day which followed
after—a day on which we had set high
hopes—the day on which our two lives
were to merge into one channel. The day
came, but it saw our high hopes laid low,
even to the very dust. In the lace draped
window stood a white casket, and In this
aatin-lined nest my dear little love, with
her white oil! bridal robes round
KATE GARLAND, Editress.
her, and violets strewn from head to foot.
In life she loved them so. Though I
am old and bent and wrinkled, the an
guish that filled my heart that day in my
youth has never left it. It has been my
daily and hourly companion. It went to
bed with me at night, and rose with
me in the morning. And like the Jews
of captivity kneeling with their faces to
ward Jerusalem, I knelt each day with
my face toward Heaven, where all my
hopes were set, and prayed that I might
at length reach that haven, and be with
my love again.
•The lilies dead lon her sweet dead breast—»
The girl J loved
God love her.'”
50 Cts, per Year.