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volume 1.1 : DrDotcfc to mterature, &flrtaUture, JHecftauCcs, S&ucation, iFotelan ana domestic EuteUifience, Kc. | number 40. BY C, R. HANLEITER. IP @ & T G3 Y □ “ Much yet remains unsung .” For the “ Southern Miscellany.” ALBUM STANZAS. Lady, when the gay are wreathing Fairest flowers to deck thy brow; And fond lips are lightly breathing Love's own vows in accents low — Listen to each burning measure ; Hearken to each half breathed sigh : Yielding every thought to pleasure, Cast this page neglected by! Lady! when each dream ofgladness Fades, as did that wreath of flowers, And when only thoughts of sadness Steal upon thy lonely hours— • Should Tilts meet thy glance of sorrow, Think of one who wishes thee, Evermore, a bright to-morrow, However dark to-day may be ! TT A 3L H g) “the unexpected return. BY WILLIAM COMSTOCK. Having been detained by a loquacious friend who held me hy the button until the clock struck one, I knew that I could not reach home in time to save my credit; and as there were those in my father’s family, who were both ready and willing to put the -worst construction upon my words and ac tions, l thought it better to seek a shelter for the night, and go home early in the morn ing—when no one need know that I had iteen absent —than to arouse the family by thundering at the doors in the dead of night. Accordingly, I surveyed the doors and win dows of a little tavern that stood by the way side, and whose lofty sign as it creaked in the wind, seemed to offer benighted travel lers an asylum. In vain, I looked for a light; not the least glimmer was visible. Even the crescent shaped hole in the shutter was darkened. I had seen at the door of this tavern, a one-eyed, stout, and red faced man, who, I made no doubt officiated as landlord, and although I had never spoken to him in my life, yet such was the impression which his hard features had made upon me, that 1 felt no disposition to arouse him from his lair at that late hour; for should my reception l>e ungracious, the amount of wrath which I should encounter, would far outweigh every advantage which I was likely to derive from his hospitality. I might have gone to the Black Swan, but there I slibuld he likely to encounter some person who knew me. As I stook looking at the darkened windows of the little tavern, I became sensible, that a shower was com ing up, and I even felt the big drops of rain upon my hand, and heard them ever and anon; like angel’s visits, pattering on the top of my hat. I looked about me for some shelter, and my eyes fell upon an ancient wooden edifice bail! by, which was certainly large enough to contain me; but there had been ceitain stories circulated about the building which did not render it a very desirable retreat during the darkness of night, when “all the world was hushed in sleep.” Stories which I had laughed at in broad daylight, exercis ed an influence over me at that hour which all my philosophy could not counteract. — Within a stone’s throw of this venerable building was a grave yard, and it had been reported that the decayed inhabitants of that grassy recepticle of the dead had been heard, at the solemn hour of midnight, careering through the numberless apartments of the deserted mansion, and making noises most uncouth to mortal ears. I blamed myself for thinking at all of such absurd recitals; but my nerves rebelled, and it was not until the rain came down in good earnest, that I could persuade myself to en ter the house. I passed through the porch and entered the first room ; but I found lit tle protection here from the storm. The rain descended in torrents, and the wind blew gusts; and as the boys had pelted the dusty windows, the sashes were broken and the rain drove in like an editor with a free pass. The chill air found its way to my ve ry bones, and I trembled more with cold than fear. As one nail drives out another, s<> the cold chased away my cowardice; ami I ascended the stairs, passing into the third story, where I found a room not only dry but also warm. The situ had laid upon the roof all day, and this room was quite com fortable. I paced backwards and forwards in this room until I became sensible that there were strange noises on the premises. The wind that shrieked and roared about this old man sion made strange music. It found its way into crevices, through which it moaned and squeaked, and then a loose clapboard would imitate the step of a human being, and, in short, the various strange noises that 1 heard, although easily accounted for, had such an effect apon my imagination, that I was ill at ease in the reputed abode of apparitions.— At length, wholly overcome by my fears, I was about making a rush for the staircase, when I was certain that I heard the light foot fall of someone in the entry. It con tinued to approach as 1 retreated into the farthest corner of the room, keeping my eyes fixed on the door. For a moment longer the footsteps approached, and then hey grew more and more distant. All this time my heart beat audibly, and my hair rose as if alive. My desire now was to be safely out of the house. But in order to do that, I must pass through the whole length of the entry to the staircase at the other end. How could this be done without encountering the being whose footsteps I had heard. Oh ! reader! there is no joke in terror. Fear hath tor ment in it; and never was I more sensible of that fact, than when I stood in one-corn er of the room, pressing my back against the wall, as if I could have sought egress through it—afraid to move forward, yet in agony while I tarried, and expecting every mo ment to hear the returning footsteps of the spectre. At length I resolved to lie down upon the floor, and endeavor to sleep until the approach ofday light. Under these cir cumstances this may seem like a singular resolution, yet in what way could I escaDe the torment of my fears. I lay down, with my elbow resting on the floor and my head on my palm, and closed my eyes. Just then I heard approaching footsteps. I determined to maintain my position, as it was least likely to attract no tice. I just opened tny eyes as the strang er entered my apartment, and then beheld it’, shround aud winding sheet, the attenua ted form of a young woman. I closed my eyes again to shut out the horrid sight, and hoped that my violent trembling would not betray me. I had been a despiserof ghosts and hobgoblins. What an instantaneous change did one glance at the sheeted and shrouded apparition effect! My eyes were closed, but my sense of hearing seemed to be rendered doubly acute. 1 heard the spec tre pause in the middle of the room. 1 felt sensible that her eyes were upon me. I heard her approach the spot where I lay ! Large drops of sweat stood on my temples. 1 thought of my relations—my happy home. Did my friends know my perilous condition! In another moment the spectre was by my side. She bent over me. I felt her warm breath on my cheek. •* I think I may trust him,” muttered she. She gently shook me by the arm. The touch seemed natural. I looked up. “ Matvei not, young gentleman,” said she “at the plight in which you see me.” “First tell me,”cried I, gasping for bieath —“ are you mortal, or are you” “ I know what you would ask,” said she, —“ I had almost foigotteu that my habili ments had been unchanged since my escape from the tomb.” “ From the tomb !” cried I, now certain that I held conference with a ghost. “ Alas! sit 1” said she, “ I seek aid and consolation from you, while you seem to need them from nie. Hear me then—l have been put in the tomb while still living, I probably fell into a swoon and was suppos ed to be dead by my relatives, who gave me prematurely to the charnel, and now weep for me as for one dead.” “ Pardon me,” said I, rising and taking her hand ; “ I now understand your condi tion, and my fears are all vanquished. When did you make your escape from the tomb]” “ Last night,” said she, “ and ever since that time I have remained secluded here, looking all day from the windows in the hope of seeing some lady my acquaintance, whom 1 could entmst with my secret and from whom I could procure suitable laiment to go forth in. In the meantime, my moth er is old and nervous, and I must not ap pear in her presence until the fact of toy existence has been gradually broken to her —and there is one other person —how I long to tell him that 1 live; yet this must not be done hastily.” “ All that you require, I will undertake in person to perform,” said I. “You shall have a dress at daylight from my sister’s wardrobe, and you shall make my father's house your home, until I have prepared your relatives for your reception ; a:ul now tell me, have you eaten nothing since last night 1” She confessed that she was hungry and faint. Ino longer hesitated to rouse the one-eyed landlord, but descended to the street, and thundered at the door of the lit tle tavern until a sleepy hostler came gaping to the door, sideways like a crab, aud sulki ly asked my will. I put a piece of silver into his hand—“ That’s for your trouble,” and a prompt “ thank’ee sir” was returned. I procured a good supply of refreshments, and hastened hack to the tomb. The streaks of dawn appeared on the eastern sky soon afterwards. I hastened home and procured suitable clothing for the lady, and then I es corted her to niy father’s house, where she was received with the most unbounded hos pitality, and her story was listened to with intense interest. I lost no time in calling upon the bereav ed family. I found in the room which I en tered, the father and mother of the young woman, two sisters and a brother, together with the particular friend mentioned by the lady herself. The last appeared to be fair ly overpowered with sorrow. He sat in one corner with his eyes fixed on the floor. He scarcely raised them as I was ushered into the apartment. As I seated myself in their midst, I said to those around me—"l have called to see you on very important business—such busi ness as warrants a stranger in thus rudely eutering your circle.” They all looked up, and I continued— “ You nave recently met with a severe mis fortune.” MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 31, 1842. “ We have, sir,” replied the father, while the tears came fast into the eyes of the mo ther and sisters. * “ Such changes, though painful to us,” said I “ may bo to the advantage of the de parted, and there is reason to believe that she has made a glorious exchange.” “ There is, young man,” said the father. “ As 1 stood by the coffin, looking upon the cold remains of my daughter, I felt a bless ed assurance that she was, at that moment, one of the angels of heaven, and enjoying the fruition of all her religious hopes.” “ Do you believe that these inward as surances are to be depended upon ?” In quired I. “ Most assuredly. It would be little less than blasphemy to doubt it. I know, from what I felt on that occasion, that my child is in heaven.” “ Though dead, she yet liveth,” said one of the sisters. “ No doubt she is yet alive,” said I. The mother looked at me a moment, and then a brief pause ensued. “ Your daughter was buried in a tomb.— I approve of lhat custom, as in case of being buried alive, there is a way of escape.” The young lady’s lover here fixed his eyes upon me, with a keen wildness that made me almost believe that he penetrated my secret. “ Cases of the kind are very rare, how ever,” said the father. “ Yet they occur sometimes, sir,” said I emphatically. The old gentleman looked very serious and thoughtful. “ But when, by some kind Providence, the sufferer has found a way to escape from the noisome prison,” said I, “ and is impa tient to meet her friends—to dry the tears of her fond mother and sisters—to lift her lover from the depth of despondency to the pinnacle ofjoy” “ You said you came on important busi ness,” cried the father, wheeling around to ward me —“for God’s sake, sir, what do your words import!” and he grasped me by the arm so earnestly that my finger ends tingled. In the mean time the lover utter ed a wild cry, and fainted. The mother now began to understand the story, and she wept aloud. “ Your daughter is alive—she is well— she is at my father’s house !” said J, I then related the whole story. The fa ther and lover could not restrain their impa tience, but arose to accompany me home. I was present at the meeting between the “ lost and found,” and her female relatives. It was a wonderful scene. By turns, doubt ing the evidence of their senses, and indulg ing in the most fervent embraces, the moth er and sisters seemed overwhelmed with rapture and amazement. Pass we on. Jane—that was her name —became reinstated in the family. I was, after that, a frequent visiter. A few days went hy, and it was perceived that the re turn of the voting lady was likely to put the family to much inconvenience. Many atti des of her wearing appatel had been dispo sed of, and arrangements had been made which must now be broken up. The kitch en maid had purchased at a low price, two of Jane’s frocks, which wonderfully suited her fancy, and she could with difficulty be persuaded to part, with them again at a fair valuation. This reluctance arose from the fact that her beau had seen and admired them both. Indeed, she had given them up, hut continued to pout; ami one Jay, when discharging some greasy water into the ken nel, she was heard by one of the family at the front window to mutter, “ I wish that when folks were once laid in their graves they would be quiet like decent folks, and not come back to torment honest people.” It also happened that Jane’s excellent qualities, which had recently been the theme of every member of the family, were gradu ally lost sight of, the longer she lived after her resurrection ; and I was witness to ma ny little bickerings that were in sad keep ing with the fine things that were said of the young lady she lay in the tomb. The mother, whose temper was none of the best, declared she would be glad when Jane was married—she wanted her away, and she wondered how any one could live who was so lazy and good-for-nothing. The wedding day at length arrived, and Jane was buried a second time—dying in her maiden rights, to be resuscitated more gloriously as a wife. Business called me from the town. In about three months after the wedding, I returned. I called to see Jane at her house. The door stood ajar, and I was witness to the following conver sation: Jane. —Then you may do it yourself. Husband. —You are very impudent—you do not know how to behave like a lady. Jane. —Nor you like a gentleman. Husband. —Well, madam, I have only one \|jsh and that is, that I may be rid of you before another three months are at an end. Jane. —Oh yes—that you may cry your eyes out, as you did when you thought I was really dead, but— Hero I heard a missile strike the wall, which proved to be a boot jack, that her husband had hurled at her head ! I walked quietly away, resolving to defer my visit -until tho “ storm was hushed and the tempest past.” Here, then, was the mourned and lament ed lady of the tomb. A few short months had sufficed to convince her friends, that her restoration to society was no such mar vellous blessing after all. Every thing went on as it had gone previous to Iter interment. She had her faults and they had theirs.— Her presence was not necessary to their happiness, although, when seen through lens of the grave, her virtues grew to mountains, while her frailties were hidden in the dark recesses of the tomb. They could mourn for her when dead, but they could not treat her with consideration while living. Then I came to the conclusion, that it is, while life remains to our friends, that our charity should be exercised. Although now walk ing among us in health and beauty, they must one day die ; and now is the time to so conduct ourselves towards them, that not one regret may be felt, when it is too late for us to do them good, or to make repara tion for the injury which they may have suf fered at our hands. One good deed perform ed to the living, is worth more than an ocean of tears shedfur the dead ! THE FISHERMAN. A THRILLING INCIDENT. It was as calm an evening as ever came from Heaven—the sky and the earth were as tranquil as if no storm from the one had ever disturbed the repose of the other : and even the ocean—that great highway of the world—lay as gentle as if its bosom had never betrayed—as if no traveler had ever sunk to death in its embrace. The sun had gone down, and the pensive twilight would have reigned over nature, but for the moon which rose in full orbed beauty, the queen of an illimitable world, to smile upon the goodly things of ours, and to give a radiance and a glory to all she shone upon. It was an hour and a scene that led the soul to the contemplation of [lim who never ceases to watch over the works he has made and whose protecting care displays itself alike upon the solid land and the trackless wastes of the deceitful sea. On the western coast of the county of Devon, which has been termed, and, it may be added, justly “the garden of England,” upon such an evening a group had assem bled around one of the fishermen’s cottages. The habitation was built in the style of olden time, when comfort was the principal object of the projector. At either side of the door were scattered the lines and nets and baskets that betokened the calling of the owner, and the fisherman was taking his farewell for the night, of his happy lov ing family, who were bidding him “ God speed” on his voyage. A fine old man was leaning his arms on the railing, and talking to an interesting girl whose hand lay upon the shoulder of a younger sister. The stout fisherman, dressed in his rough jerkin, and large boots that reached far above the knees, was in the act of kissing a little cherub, who seemed half terrified at being elevated so high as his father’s lips; while the wife and mother, with her infant nursling on her lap, was looking anxiously upon her husband as she breathed the parting blessing, and the prayer for his safe return. A little boy, the miniature of his father in countenance and in dress, hearing a huge boat cloak across his shoulders, and the lantern that was to give light when the moon departed, com pleted the group —if we except a noble Newfoundland dog, some steps in advance of the party, watching for the nod to com mand his march to a kind of pier where the fisherman and his hoy were to embark.— “Good luck, good luck!” exclaimed the old man, “ good luck and safe home again, John : ye want no more but God’s blessing, and that ye may have for asking; but ye may as well take mine too —God bless ye, anti good bye to ye.” The blessing was heartily echoed by his kind partner and his children, and whistling as lie went, with his boat hook on his shoul der, his dog Neptune before him, and his boy following, he trudged along to the beach. With the earliest dawn of morning the fisherman’s family were astir; the elder girl was busily arranging their little parlor, while the younger was preparing the break fast table, and the mother spreading before the fire the clothes of her husband and her boy. An hour passed, and she grew some what uneasy that he had remained abroad beyond the usual period of his return. An other hour had elapsed, when she said to her father, “ Father, go out to the hillock and try if you can sec his sail upon the wa ter; he seldom stays out so long when the sea is calm and the weather fair; my little boy was not quite well last night, and this alone should have hastened him home.” The old man went forth, and one by one of his grand children followed him, until the mother was left alone, rocking the cra dle of her unconscious babe. After the lapse of another hour, her daughter entered with news that a neighbor had spoken to her father in the night, and that he would certainly he soon home. “ God grant it!” said she, and she spoke in a tone of deep anxiety—“ he never was away so long but once, and that was when he saved the crew of the ship, Mary ; and then the whirl of tho sinking vessel well nigh made his grave.” Again she stirred the fire, again arranged the clothes before it, and poured some hot water into the tea cups. Still the breakfast remained untouched. Tho sun was now soaring to his meridian height, when once more tho family assem- bled in their humble dwelling, the prop of the whole was yet wanting. They sat down to a cheerless meal, the seats at either side of the wife remained vacant. The old man was the only individual who appeared to an ticipate no evil; but be hastily finished his breakfast and went forth. The noon was rapidly passing, and the sun had already given tokens of the glory of his departure, when the fishei man’s wife having lulled her infant asleep, went herself to the hill that commanded an extensive view of the wide spread ocean. All the little household soon assembled on the spot, but no boat was seen upon the waters— nothing that could give hope except the as pect of the waves which looked too plaeid to be dangerous. Their deep dread was no longer to be concealed ; and while the old man paced to and fro, looking earnestly at brief intervals over the lovely sea, the mother and daugh ter were sobbing audidly. “ Fearless let him he whose trust is in his God !” exclaimed the father. The sen tence was uttered involuntarily, but it had its effect. “Aye,” said the mother, “he always trusted in his God, and God will not forsake him now.” “Do you remember, Jane,” continued the old man, “ how often Providence was with me, amid the storm and the wreck, when help from man was far off, and would have been useless if neat ?” And they cheered and encouraged one another to hope the best—but to submit to the decree of Heaven, whether it came as the gentle dew to nourish, or as the heavy rain to oppress. From that hillock which overlooked the ocean, ascended the mingled prayers that God would not leave them desolate. The fisherman the object of their hopes and fears—had been very successful dur ing the night, when at day bieak, as he was preparing to return home, be remembered his promise to bring with him some seaweed to manure the pjotatoe plot behind his cot tage. He was then close to the rocks, which were only discernable at low water; ho pulled for them, jumped on shore, fastened the painter of his boat to a jutting part of a cliff', and took his boat hook with him. He collected a sufficient quantity of the weed, but in his eagerness to obtain it, had wan dered from the landing place, when he heard his boy loudly hallowing and exclaiming that the painter was loose. He rushed in stantly towards the boat, which was then several yards off; the boy was endeavoring to use both the oars, and Neptune, the faith ful dog, was running backward, howling fearfully, as if conscious of his master’s danger, at one moment about to plunge in to the waves and join him, and the next lick ing flip fare and hands of the child, as if he O - foresaw that for him liis protection would be most needed. The fisherman perceived at once the des perate nature of his situation ; the tide he knew was coming in rapidly, and his hope of escape was at an end, when he perceived that his lw>v in his effort to use the oars, hail let one of them fall overboard. “Father, father,” exclaimed the poor lad, “ what shall ldo!” The boat was at this moment so distant that his distracted parent could scarce ly hear the words, but he called out to him as loud as he could to trust in God, the fath er of the fatherless. He then stood resign ed to the fate which awaited him, and watch ed the drifting boat in peril from the fatal rocks. He had offered up a brief prayer to the throne of mercy, when in an instant a light bioke upon his mind. “ Great God 1” he exclaimed, “I may yet be saved.” With the energy of hope battling with despair, he collected all the stones around him, and heaped them rapidly upon the highest ledge of rocks—it was indeed wonderful how he could have gathered so many in so short a time, but the Almighty gave strength to his arm, and he was laboring not for life mere ly, but for beings still dearer to him. The tide came on, on, on, and soon obliged him to quit his work. .He then mounted the pile he had beapecl planted his boat-hook firmly in one of lliejcrevices of the cliff’, and prepared to struggle for existence : but his henit failed him, when he considered how slight was the possibility that the waters would not rise above his head, tstill he de termined to do all lie could to preserve life. The waves were not rough, and the boat hook supported him. The awful moment rapidly approached ; the water had reached his knees ; but he stood firmly and prayed that he might be preserved. On, on, on, it came, and his shoulders were covered—hope died within him, and he thought of himself no longer, hut to those who were so dear to him ; his wife, his ch’ldren and his father—it was a blessing to them that he then implored Heaven. Still, on, on, on, it came, and he was forced to raise his head to keep os long as possible from death ; his reason was al most gone, his breath grew feeble, his limbs chilled ; he panted and his jirnyer became almost gurgling murmurs. The blood rush ed to his head ; his eye balls glared as if they would start from the sockets. lie clos ed them with an effort, and thought for the last time on the home that would soon bo so wretched! Horrible images were before him—each swell of the waves seemed as if the fiends were forcing him downward, and the cry of the seabird was like their yells ovev their victim. He was gasping, rhoak ■ing, for ho had not strength to keep his head ¥. T. THOMPSON, EDITOB. above the waves; every moment it was splashing upon him, and each convulsive start that followed only aroused him to the consequences of consciousness, if conscious nessit could be called, that the next plunge would be his last. Merciful powers ! at the very moment, when the strength and spirit of man had left him, and the cold shudder of death had come on, he felt that the tide rose no higher. His eyes opened, closed and a feat ful laugh troubled the waters ! They eddied in his throat, and the bubbles floated around his lips—hut they rose no higher—that he knew -~again and again his bosom heaved with a deep sob, and he drew in liis breath, and gave it forth in agony. A minute had pass ed since the salt sea touched his lips ; this was impossible if the tide still flowed—ho could reason so much. He opened his eyes and faintly murmured forth, “ Oh, God, be merciful 1” The flow of the ocean had in deed ceased ; there lie stood motionless; but praying and weeping—thinking of his beloved home, and hoping that bis place there might not be forever vacant. The wa ters in a short time subsided, and he was enabled to stretch his chilled limbs, and then to warm them by exercise. Soon the rock was left dry as before, and the fisherman knelt down upon that desolate spot among the billows—hid his face in his hands, and praised and blessed his Creature—his Pre server ! Oh ! It Was tber well known bark of his faithful dog that he heard above the waters; in another moment the creature was licking his pale cheek. He was saved—he was saved; for his own boat had touched the shore, and his own boy was in his arms!— He had been drifted to the htftd, and had easily found those who had rowed hard for the chance of saving his father’s life. “ Now homeward, homeward !” he ex claimed. “ Homeward, homeward!” echoed the child, and Neptune jumped and.b'arked at the welcome sound. The fisherman’s family wa9 still supplica tinac Providence tlw* LilLvck iLt ovor looked the deep, when the old man started from his knees, and exclaimed, “ We are heard! there is a speck upon the distant waters.” “ Where, Where 1” was echoed hy the group, and lie pointed out what he hoped to be the absent boat. They eagerly strain ed their eyes, hut could see nothing; in a few moments, however, all perceived a sail; still it was impossible to tell the directioniu which its curse lay. Then was the agony of suspense; it con tinued, however, but for a short time ; a boat was evidently advancing towards the shore; in a few minutes, they could plainly perceive a man at the bow, waving his hat above his head, and soon after the well known bark of Neptune was borne to them by the breeze. The family rushed to the extremity of tho rude pier, and the loud huzza of the fisher man, was answered by the “ welcome, wel come,” of his father, and the almost inarti culate “ thank God,” of liis wife. And now all was joy and happiness in tho cottage, where there hndjbeen so much wretchedness; the fisherman, his boy and his dog, were safe from the perils of the great deep ; but he would return no answer to questions, as to what had detained him so long beyond the usual period of his re turn. “ Wait, my wife,” said he, “ until wo have dressed and refreshed ourselves, and you shall know all ; but before we do either, let us bless God for his mercy, for out of great danger hath he preserved me.” Never was there a more sincere or more earnest prayer offered up to the Giver of all goodness, than ascended from the humble dwelling. And when the fisherman had told his tale, how fervently did they all re peat the words that had given them so much consolation in the morning. “ Fearless let him be whose trust is in God.” Discovery rs Engraving. —The art of print engraving, like many other important in ventions, was the result of accident. A poor woman having entered into the studio of the celebrated Florentine goldsmith, Maso Fi uiguerra, bearing in her hand a packet of wet linen, incautiously placed it upon a ta ble on which lay a small silver plate that tho artist had just finished engraving. In order to see the effect before it was enamelled ho had filled the lines with a composition very nearly approaching our common printing ink, composed of lamp-black and oil; and the woman, upon taking up her parcel, found a very neat impression of the subject upon the wet napkin in which it was envel oped. Such is the story told hy Vasari, and if not exactly true, it has, at least, the merit of being highly probable.— Dublin Review. Women are the flowers of society—when cherished, their beauty and fragrance are perennial; when neglected, they fade and wither, lose their sweetness and become ob jects of disgust. Be careful, then, thou to whom one of these delicate plants is en trusted. Old bachelors do not live so long as other men. They have nobody to darn their stockings and mend their clothes. They catch cold, and there is no one to make them sage tea : consequently they drop off.