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(Original |'artnj.
Fortlie Southern Literary Gazette.
epistle amatory.
HV ALTON.
He that can love unloved again,
H ,[h larger store ot'love tlian brain,
[Sir Robert Ayton.
I.
Be . i> —. You de3ire me,
I Clio inspire me,
VidooL-sy flow in the vein,—
■so yield to the spell
Os my love-breathing shell,
. jiv n • you an amorous strain,
you’re anxious to hear,
When adoring a fair,
\, | tse bosom with passion is fired,
How best you may act.
In turn to exact
r ,Mj litai, so dearly desired.
tr.
( \~nle) — I , forsooth—
Being an amorous youth,
11 id rather a weakness for Cupid ;
Who, seeing my failing,
Was ever ;i .cling,
\ ,and turning me perfectly stupid ;
For, So , • did you see’,
The hoy lias an e’e
lift-ii and as quick as a sago,—
And ha! if not w. e,
A tyrant he’ll rise,
\ ,J sorrowful war on ye wage !
111.
How I pity poor Willis,
Uncapped by fair Phillis—
! !.... little coquette ought to blush, sir ;
ili.s heart —perfect tinder,
Is burnt to a cinder,
< ,v lu answered his suit, ‘Tush, tush, sir!’
With deep sunken eyes,
In sorrow he sighs,
‘j . the m ion repeats the ad tile,
Lo t his relish for dinner,
Because lie can’t win her,
A id tries t > grow ‘ wretchedly pale.’
IV.
In plain conversation,
With strange collocation,
fiie simplest of words misarrays,
Answers questions so blindly,
With absence of mind, he
Affects not to hear what one says—
For sympathy turns
To Keats, Moore or Burns,
ViTo-e sorrows he fancies he bears—
Grows quite misanthropic
With Byron’s sad topic,
And sinks into sullen despairs !
v.
If, perchance, on the streets,
A maiden he meets,
Who haps not to be his sweet Phillis,
For hours together,
He talks of the weather,
G. 111* street, though it rained, dusty still is.
Tricked out in fine airs,
To the Ball he repairs,
With fond heart and high hopes of pleasure,
With a soul-melting gaze,
To look in her face,
And reveal lii.s warm bosom’s sweet treasure.
VI.
But, wo is his fate,
If perchance, quite elate,
She smiles with delight on another —
See his countenance fall,
As sad ’gainst the wall
He leans in a terrible bother.
Not a lady that e’en
For lie’s seized with the spleen)
Hies he deign to converse, or to dance with—
But, silent and frigid,
Lips pursed-up quite rigid,
He seems to be spelled a deep trance with.
Til.
While Phill is coquettes,
Amused at his pets,
Aad flatters a beau of coarse feature,
Nor troubles herself
h ith the simple weak elf,
i! t laughs at the poor silly creature !
At supper, with Sherry,
Howe’er he makes merry—
Determined to drown thus his sorrow :
But, the excitement all over,
S id again he thinks of her,
Bit worse—gets a head-ache next morrow !
VIII.
And retiring to bed,
V\ itb a love-addled head,
Kicks restless in every direction —
Nor sleeps he a bit,
Less Mab ‘ makes a hit’
h uli dreams of ‘ requited affection’.
But to bear quite unable
A lot so unstable,
Hi- late now decides pretty quick:
As, with heart pitta-patter,
Disclosing the matter,
Hi gets—why what but a kick !
IX.
Now, pray, Sir, excuse me,
It here I accuse thee,
t one who may sit for this picture—
But, stand ye alone ?
File re are a hundred I’ve known,
“'horn may apply the same stricture.
You asked me for truth —
So thus, my dear youth,
i-knowing your hapless condition,
I’ve probed your weak heart,
That the wound, while it smart,
“ay Bring you back soon to contrition.
x.
For, believe it, my man,
I ts a wretched bad plan
1 tor a woman’s compassion—
To shrink when she spurns,
() r w eep when she turns,
‘■ t:i e sure way to get the Flirt’s lash on !
I he smile of a lonian,
Compassionate to man,
m °re than her scorn the heart harrows:
1 is a caustic applied
1 ” a manly heart’s pride,
‘ Ml ich wounds it more keen than Love’s
arrows.
XI.
What want you with pity
From the heart which hath stnit ye l
‘ 1 Lius you’d a conquest obtain ?
Besiege, with warm zeal,
Her heart’s citadbl,
J ‘ s ße spurn thee—retire from her train.
Hor, though a sweet Fairy
I should worship, yet, hear ye,
a Mffiiiii wmuk mmm ts m'umtmi, the mn awq mmm . mb n mmui
I never would pray for a smile :
If she gave it not free,
’Twere no value to me—
But would prove her a creature of guile.
XII.
’Tts woman’s true sphere,
With fa.th to revere,
Air! acknowledge the man her superior:
When she seek - .1 protector,
Do you weak'/ expect her
To seek the arms of her inferior ?
If she ever unites
In Hymeniai rites
With the man she ne’er loved deep and true,
Beware, and expect sure,
The sad Curtain-Lecture,
Hen-pecking, the sulks, or a Shrew.
XIII.
Fond man—do you love ?
Are you willing to prove,
By patience, forbearance, or danger, or fortune.
The thousand of trials,
The stern self-denials,
That await thee, hereafter, in Lite’s changing
*
sun ?
If such be thy love,
Thou standest above
One half the weak mortals beside thee :
Whate’er thy condition,
Thy wealth or position,
A Queen’s not too high to be-bride thee.
xtv.
Then, man of my heart,
Be a man, as thou ait,
And,favoured thus well o’er the crowd, —
Bow down to no one,
Yet spurn not the low one,
Be true to thyself—be proud to the proud!
If the maiden thou lovest
To thee coldly provest,
Turn, turn from her side in disdain :
Never stoop to a sigh.
But keep a bright eye,
And proudly dissemble thy pain!
xv.
For women seek men—
Not Strephons I ken,
But men—spirits jovial and high :
If her choice thou art,
With a woman’s true heart,
’Twill speak Iron her love-breathing eye !
Scout, scout the ‘ old saw’,
That, in Modesty’s law,
A maiden should ne’er dream of love,
Till, bowed at her feet,
In petitionings sweet,
A youth bis fond passion doth prove !
XVI.
Entrc nous —I confess,
I’d seek no caress
From one of this old-maujish school:
Give rue Nature’s true feelings—
Not Art’s vile concealing;—
And I’m sure of a wife—not a f—l.
The girl who ne’er knows—
Or pretends’to the close,
Not to see your fond hopes and wild fears:
Be sure is a Prude—
Cold, callous and rude—
And will turn thy bright smiles into tears !
spirit of tljr Imraola.
[We have already advised our read
ers that Mr. Putnam lias in press, a
very beautiful volume, entitled “The
Memorial,” and written by the friends
of the bite Mrs. Osgood with the de
sign of erecting a monument to her
memory with the profits arising from
its sale, lathe November Internation
al, we find, copied by permission, the
following exquisite story ; and we take
the liberty of introducing it to out
readers in advance of the publication
of “ The Memorial. ’ Eds. Gazette .]
THE SNOW IMAGE.
A CHILDISH MIRACLE.
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
One afternoon of a cold winter’s day,
when the sun shone forth with chilly
brightness, after a long storm, two chil
dren asked leave of their mother to
run out and play in the new-fallen
snow. The eldest child was a little
girl, whom, because she was of a tender
and modest disposition,and was thought
to be very beautiful, her parents, find
other people that were familiar with
her, used to call Violet. But her
brother was known by the style and
title of Peony, on account of the rud
diness of his broad and round little
phiz, which made everybody think of
sunshine and great scarlet flowers. —
The father of these two children, a cer
tain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to
say, was an excellent, but exceedingly
matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in
hardware, and was sturdily accustomed
to take what is called the common
sense view of all matters that came un
der his consideration. With a heart
about as tender as other peoples’, he
had a head as hard and impenetrable,
and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as
one of the iron pots which it was apart
of his business to sell. The mother’s
character, on the other hand, had a
strain of poetry in it, a trait of un
worldly beauty, a delicate and dewy
flower, as it were, that had survived out
of her imaginative youth, and still kept
itself alive amid the dusty realities of
matrimony and motherhood.
So, Violet and Peony, as I began
with saying, besought their mother to
let them run out and play in the new
snow ; for, though it had looked so
dreary and dismal, drifting downward
out of the gray sky, it had a very cheer
ful aspect, now that the sun was shin
ing on it. The children dwelt in a city,
and had no wider play place than a lit
tle garden before the ho ’se, divided by
a white fence from the street, and with
a pear-tree and two or three plum-trees
overshadowing it, and some rose-bush
es just in front of the parlour-windows.
The trees and shrubs, however, were
now leafless, and their twigs were en
veloped iu the light snow, which thus
made a kind of wintry foliage, with
here and there a pendant icicle for the
fruit.
“Yes, Violet—yes, my little Peony,”
said their kind mother ; “you may go
out and play in the new snow.”
j ‘
Accordingly, the good lady bundled
tip her darlings in woolen jackets and
wadded sacks,and put comforters round
their necks, and a pair of striped gaiters
on each little pair of legs, and worst
ed mittens’ on their hands, and gave
them a kiss a-piece, by way of a spell
to keep away Jack Frost. Forth sal
lied the two children with a hop-skip
and-jutnp, that carried them at once in
to the. very heart of a huge snow-drift,
whence Violet emerged like a snow
hunting, while little Peony floundered
out with his round face in full bloom.
Then what a merry time had they ! To
look at them, frolicking in the wintry
garden, you would have thought that
the dark and pitiless storm had been
sent for no other purpose but to pro
vide anew plaything for Violet and
Peony; and that they themselves had
been created, as the snow birds were,
to take delight only in the tempest, and
lin the white mantle which it spread
over the earth.
At last, when they had frosted one
another all over with handfuls of snow,
Violet, after laughing heartily at little
Peony’s figure, was struck with anew
idea.
“You look exactly like a snow-image,
Peony,” said she, “if your cheeks were
not so red. And that puts me in mind!
Let us make an image out of snow—
:m image of a littJe girl—and it shall
be our sister, and shall run about and
play with us all winter long. Won’t
it be nice ?”
“ Oh, yes !’’ cried Peony, as plainly
as he could speak, for he was but a lit
tle boy. “That will be nice ! And
mamma shall see it!”
“Yes, answered Violet; “mamma
shall see the new little girl. But she
must not make her come into the warm
parlour; for, you know, our little snow
sister wiil not love the warmth.”
And forthwith the children began
this great business of making a snow
image that should run about —while
their mother* who was sitting at the
window and overheard some of their
talk, could not help smiling at thegrav
ity with which they set about it. ‘They
really seemed to imagine that there
would he no difficulty whatever in cre
ating a live little girl out of the snow.
And to say the truth, if miracles are
ever to be wrought, it will be by put
ting our bands to the work, in precise
ly such a simple and undoubting frame
of mind as that in which Violet and
Peony now undertook to perform one,
without so much tts knowing that it was
a miracle. No thought the mother;
and thought, likewise, that the new
snow, just fallen trorn heaven, would
be excellent material to make new be
ings of. if it were not so very cold.—
She gazed at the children a moment
longer, delighting to watch their little
figures—the girl, tall for her age, grace
ful and agile, and so delicately colour
ed, that she looked like .a cheerful
thought, more than a physical reality
—while Peony expanded in breadth
rather than height, and rolled along on
his short and sturdy legs, as substan
tial as an elephant, though not quite so
big. Then the mother resumed her
work ; what it was I forget; but she
was either trimming a silken bonnet
for Violet, or darning a pair of stock
ings for little Peony’s short legs.—
Again, however, and again, and yet oth
er agains, she could not help turning
her head to the window,, to see how
the children got on with their snow
image.
Indeed, it was an exceedingly plea*
sant sight, those bright little souls at
their tasks! Moreover, it was really
wonderful to observe how knowingly
CJ V
and skilfully they managed the matter.
Violet assumed the chief direction, and
told Peony what to do, while, with
her own delicate tinge she shaped
out all the nicer parts of the snow-figure.
It seemed, in fact, not so much to he
made by the children, as to grow up
under their hands, while they were
playing and prattling about it. Their
mother was quite surprised at this;
and the longer ahe looked, the more
and more surprised she grew.
“ What remarkable children mine
are !” thought she, smiling with a mo
ther’s pride; and smiling at herself,
too, for being so proud of them.—
“ What other children could have made
anything so like a little girl’s figure
out of snow, at the first trial ? Well,
—but now 1 must finish Peony’s new
frock ; for his grandfather is coming
to-morrow, and 1 want the little fellow
to look handsome.”
So she took up the frock, and was
soon as busily at work again with her
needle as the tivo children with their
snow-image. But still, as the needle
traveled hither and thither through the
seams of the dress, the mother made
her toil light and happy by listening
to the airy voices of Violet and Peony.
They kept talking to one another all
the time—their tongues being quite as
active as their feet and hands. Except
at intervals, she could not distinctly
hear what was said, but had merelv a
sweet impression that they were in a
most loving mood, and were enjoying
themselves highly, and that the busi
ness of making the snow-image went
prosperously on. Now and then, how
ever, when Violet and Peony happened
to raise their voices, the words were as
audible as if they had been spoken in
the very parlour, where the mother sat.
Oh, how delightfully those words
echoed in her heart, even though they
meant nothing so very wise or wonder
ful, after all !
But you must know, a mother lis
tens with her heart, much more than
with her ears ; and thus she is often de
lighted with the thrills of celestial mu
sic, when other people can hear nothing
of the kind.
“ Peony, Peony !” cried Violet to
her brother, who had gone to another
part of the garden ; “bring me some of
that fresh snow, Peony, from the farth
est corner, where we have not been
trampling. 1 want it to shape our lit
tle snow-sister’s bosom with. You
know that part must be quite pure —
just as it came out of the sky !”
“ Here it is, Violet!” answered Pe
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, DEC. 7, 1850.
ony, in his bluff tone —but a very sweet
tone, too--as he came floundering
through the half-trodden drifts. “Here
is the snow for her little bosom. Oil.
Violet, how beau-ti—ful she begins to
look !”
“ Yes,” said Violet, thoughtfully and
quietly ; “ our snow-sister does look
very lovely. I did not quite know,
Peony, that we could make such a
sweet little girl as this.”
The mother, as she listened, thought
how fit and delightful an incident it
would be, if fairies, or, still better, if
angel-children were to come from para
dise, and play invisibly with her own
darlings, and help them to make their
snow-image—giving it the features of
celestial babyhood ! Violet and Peo
ny would not he aware of their im
mortal playmates—only they would
see that the image grew very beautiful,
while they worked at it, and would
think that they themselves had done it
all.
“My little giri and boy deserve such
playmates, if mortal children ever did!”
said the mother to herself; and then
she smiled again at her own motherly
pride.
Nevertheless, the ideti seized upon
her imagination; and, ever and anon,
she took a plimpseout of the window,
halt-dreaming that she might see the
golden-haired children of paradise,
sporting with her own golden-haired
Violet and bright-cheeked Peony.
Now, fora few moments, there was
a busy and earnest, but indistinct hum
of the two children’s voices, as Violet
and Peonv wrought together with one
happy consent. Violet still seemed
to he the guiding spirit: while Peony
acted rather as a labourer, and brought
her the snow from far and near. And
yet the little urchin evidently had a
proper understanding of the matter,
too !
“ Peony, Peony !” cried Violet; for
her brother was again at the other side
of the garden. “ Bring me those light
wreaths of snow that have rested on
the lower branches of the pear-tree. —
You can clamber on the snow-drift,
Peony, and reach them easily. I must
have them to make some ringlets for
our snow-sister’s head !”
“ Here they are, Violet!” answered
the little boy. “Take care you do not
break them. Well done ! Well done!
How pretty !”
“ Does she not look sweetly ?” said
Violet, with a very satisfied tone; “and
now we must have some little shining
bits of iee to make the brightness of
her eyes. She is not finished yet. —
Mamma will see how very beautiful
she is; but papa will say,‘Tush ! non
sense !—come in out of the cold !’ ”
“ Let us call mamma to look out,”
laid Peony; and then he shouted lusti
sv, “Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!!
Look out, and see what a nice’ittle girl
we are making!”
The mother put down her work, for an
instant, and looked out of the window.
But it so happened that the sun —for
this was one of the shortest days of
the whole year —had sunken so nearly
to the edge of the world, that his set
ting shine came obliquely into the la
dy’s eyes. So she was dazzled, you
must understand, and could not very
distinctly observe what was in the gar
den. Still, however, through all that
bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and
‘the new snow, she beheld a small white
figure in the garden that seemed to
have a wonderful deal of human like
ness about it. And she saw Violet and
Peony—indeed, she looked more at
them than at the image—she saw the
two children still at work; Peony
bringing fresh snow, and Violot apply
ing it to the figure, as scientifically as
a sculptor adds clay to his model.—
Indistinctly as she discerned the snow
child, the mother thought to herself
that never before was there a snow-fig
ure so cunningly made, nor ever such
a dear little boy and girl to make it.
“They do everything better than
other children,” said she, very compla
cently. “No wonder they make better
snow-images !’,
She sat down again to her work, and
made as much haste with it as possible;
because twilight won Id soon come, and
Peony’s frock was not yet finished, and
grandfather was expected, by railroad,
pretty early in the morning. Faster
and faster, therefore, went her flying
lingers. The children, likewise, kept
busily at work in the garden, and still
the mother listened, whenever she could
catch a word. She was amused to ob
serve how their little imaginations had
got mixed up wit h what they were do
ing, and were earried away by it. They
seemed positively to think that the
snow-child would run about and play
with them.
“What a nice playmate she will be
for us, all winter long!” said Violet.
“I hope papa will not be afraid of her
giving us a cold ! Shan’t you love her
dearly, Peony ?”
“O, yes!” cried Peony. “ And 1
will hug her, and she shall sit down
close by me, and drink some of my
warm milk !’’
“Oh no, Peony !” answered Violet
with grave wisdom. “That will not
do at all. Warm milk will not be
wholesome for our little snow-sister.—
Littlesnowjieople, like her, eat nothing
but icicles. No no, Peony ; we must
not give her anything warm to drink !”
There was a minute or two of si
lence ; for Peony, whose short legs
were weary, had gone on a pilgrimage
again to the other side of the garden.
All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loud
ly and joyfully :
Look here, Peony ! Cos ne quickly !
A light has been shining on her cheek
out of that rose-coloured cloud!—and
the colour does not go away ! Is not
that beautiful ?”
“ Y es; it is beau-ti-ful,” answered
Peony, pronouncing the three syllables
with deliberate accuracy. “ Oh, Vio
let, only look at her hair! It is all like
gold!”
“ Oh, certainly,” said Violet, with
tranquility, as if it were very much a
matter of course. “That colour, you
know, comes from the golden clouds,
that we see up there in the sky. She
is almost finished now. But her lips
must be made very red —redder than
her cheeks. Perhaps, Peonv, it will
make them red, if we both k ; ss them!”
Accordingly, the mother heard two
smart little smacks, as if both her chil
dren were kissing the snow-image on its
frozen mouth. But, as this did not
seem to make the lips quite red enough,
Violet next proposed that the snow
child should be invited to kiss Peony’s
scarlet cheek.
“ Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss me!”
cried Peony.
“ There ! she has kissed you,” added
Violet, “and now her lips are very red.
And she blushed a little, too !”
“Oh, what a cold kiss !” cried Peony.
Just then, there came a breeze of the
pure west wind, sweeping through the
garden and rattling the parlor-windows.
It sounded so wintry cold, that the mo
ther was about to tap on the window
pane with herthimbled finger, to sum
mon the <wo children in; when they
both cried out to her with one voice.
The tone was not a tone of surprise,
although they were evidently a good
deal excited ; it appeared rather as if
they were very much rejoiced at some
event that ha i now happened, hut which
they had been looking for, and had
reckoned upon all along.
“ M imma ! mamma ! We have fin
ished our little snow-sister, and she is
running about the garden with us !”
“ What imaginative little beings my
children are !” thought the mother, put
ting the last few stitches into Peony’s
frock. “ And it is strarige, too, that
they make me almost as much a child
as they themselves tire! i can hardly
help believing,now,that the snow-image
ha - really come to life !”
“Dear mamma!” cried Violet, “pray
look out, and see what a sweet play
mate we have!”
The mother, being thus entreated,
could no longer delay to look forth
from the window. The sun was now
gone out of the sky, leaving, however,
a rich inheritance of his brightness
among those purple and golden clouds
which makes the sunsets of winter so
magnificent. But there was not the
slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the
window or on the snow; so that the
good lady could look all over the gar
den, and see everything and everybody
in it. .And what do you think she saw
there ! Violet and Peony, of course,
her own two darling children. Ah, hut
whom or what did she see besides? —
Why, if you will believe me, there was
a small figure of a girl, dressed all in
white, with rose-tinged cheeks and
ringlets of golden hue, playing about
the garden with the two children. A
stranger though she was, the child seem
ed to he on as familiar terms with Vio
let and Peony, and they with her, as if
all the three id been pi vitiates during
the whole < their little lives. The
mother thought to herself, that it must
certainly be the daughter of one of the
neighbours, and that, seeing Violet and
Peony in the garden, the child had run
across the street to play with them.—
So this kind lady went to the door, in
tending to invite the little runaway in
to her comfortable parlour; for, now
that the sunshine was withdrawn, the
atmosphere, out of doors, was already
growing very cold.
But, after opening the house-door,
she stood an instant on the threshold,
hesitating whether she ought to ask the
child to come in, or whether she should
even speak toiler. Indeed, she almost
doubted whether it were a real child,
after all, or only a light wreath of the
new-fallen snow, blown hither and
thither about the garden by the in
tensely cold west-wind. There was
certainly something very singular in the
aspect of the little stranger. Among
all the children of the neighbourhood,
the lady could remember no such face,
with its pure white, and delicate rose
colour, and the golden ringlets tossing
about the forehead and cheeks. And
as for her dress, which was entirely of
white, and fluttering in the breeze, it
was such as no reasonable woman
would put upon a little girl, when send
ing her out to play, in the depth of
winter. It made this kind and careful
mother shiver only to look at those
small feet, with nothing in the world
on them, except a very thin pair of
white slippers. Nevertheless, airily as
she was clad, the child seemed to feel
not the slightest inconvenience from
the cold, but danced so lightly over
the snow that the tips of her toes left
hardly a print in its surface; while Vio
let could but just keep pace with her,
and Peony’s short legs compelled him
ft) lag behind.
Once, in the course of their play, the
strange child placed herself between
Violet and Peony, and taking a hand
of each, skipped merrily forward, and
they along with her. Almost imme
diately, however, Peony pulled away
his little fist, and began to rub it as if
the lingers were tingling with cold ;
while Violet also released herself,
though with less abruptness, gravely
remarking that it was better not to take
hold of hands. The white-robed dam
sel said not a word, but danced about
just as merrily as before. If Violet
and Peony did not choose to play with
her, she could make just as good a play
mate of the brisk and cold west-wind,
which kept blowing her all about the
garden, and took such liberties with her
that they seemed to have been friends
tor a long time. All this while, the
mother stood on the threshold, wonder
ing how a little girl could look so much
like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow
drift could look so very like a littlegirl.
She called Violet, and whispered to
her.
“ Violet, my darling, what is this
child’s name ?” asked she. “Does she
live near us ?”
“ Why, dearest mamma,” answered
V iolet, laughing to think that her mo
ther did not comprehend so very plain
an affair, “this is our little snow-sister,
whom we have just been making !”
“ Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony,
running to his mother, and looking up
simply into her face. “ This is our
snow-image! Is it not a nice ’itttle
child?”
At this instant a flock of snow-birds
came flitting through the air. As was
very natural, they avoided Violet and
Peony. But —and this looked strange
—they flew at once to the white-robed
child, fluttered eagerly about her head,
alighted on her shoulders, and seemed
to claim her as an old acquainrance.—
She, on her part, wa” evidently as glad
to see these little birds, old Winter’s
grandchildren, as they were to see her,
and welcomed them by holding out
both her hands. Hereupon, they each
and all tried to alight on her two palms
and ten small fingers and thumbs,
crowding one another off, with an im
mense fluttering of their tiny wings.—
One dear little bird nestled tenderly in
her bosom ; another put its bill to her
lips. They were as joyous, all the
while, and seemed as much in their cle
ment, as you may have seen them when
sporting with a snow-storm.
\ iolet and Peony stood laughing at
this pretty sight; for they enjoyed the
merry time which their new playmate
was having with these small-win -ed
visitants, almost as much as if they
themselves took part in it.
“ V iolet,” said her mother, greatly
perplexed, “tell me the truth, without
any jest. Who is this little girl ?”
“My darling mamma,” answered
Violet, looking seriously into her mo
ther’s face, and apparently surprised
that she should need any further ex
planation, ‘1 have told you truly who
she is. It, is our little snow image,
which Peony and I have been making.
Peony will toll you so as well I.”*
“ Yes, mamma,” asseverated Peonv,
with much gravity in his crimson little
phiz; “this is’ittle snow-child. Is not
she a nice one ? But, mamma, her
hand is, oh, so very cold !”
VV bile mamma still hesitated what
to think and what to do, the street-gate
was thrown open, and the father of
Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped
in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur-cap
drawn down over his ears, and the
thickest of gloves upon his hands. Mr.
Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with
a weary, and yet a happy look in his
wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as
if he had been busy all day long, and
was glad to get back to his quiet home.
His eyes brigliteded at the sight of his
wife and children, although he could
not help uttering a Avord or two of sur
prise, at finding the whole family in the
open air, on so bleak a day, and after
sunset’ too. lie soon perceived the
little white stranger, sporting to and
fro in the garden, like a dancing snow
wreath, and the flock of snow-birds flut
tering about her head.
“Pray, what little girl may that be?”
inquired this very sensible man. “Sure
ly her mother must be crazy, to let her
go out in such bitter weather as it has
been to-day, with only that flimsy white
gown, and those thin slippers !”
“My dear husband,” said his wife,
“I know no more about the little thing
than you do. Some neighbour’sehild,
1 suppose. Our Violet and Peony,”
she added, laughing at herself for re
peating so absurd a story, “insist that
she is nothing but a snow-image, which
they have been busy about in the gar
den, almost all the afternoon.”
As she said this, the mother glanced
her eyes towards the spot where the
children’s snow-image hud been made.
What was her surprise, on perceiving
that there was not the slightest trace
of so much labour ! —no image at all !
no piled-up heap of snow !—nothing
whatever, save the prints of little foot
steps around a vacant space.
“This is very strange!” said she.
“What is strange, dear mother?”
asked Violet- “ Dear father, do not
you see how it is? Thi,s is our snow
image, which Peony and I have made,
because we wanted another playmate.
Did not we, Peony?”
“Yes, Papa,” said crimson Peony.
“ This is our ‘ittle snow-sister. Is she
not beau-ti-ful ? But she gave me such
a cold kiss!”
“ Poll, children !” cried
their good, honest father, who, as we
have already intimated, had an exceed
ingly common-sensible way of looking
at matters. “Do not tell me of making
live figures out of snow. Come, wife;
this little stranger must not stay out in
the bleak air a moment longer. We
will bring her into the parlour; and
you shall give her a supper of warm
bread and milk, and make her as com
fortable as you can. Meanwhile, I will
inquire among the neighbours ; or, if
necessary, send the city-crier about the
streets, to give notice of a lost child.”
So saving, this honest and very kind
hearted man was going toward the lit
tie white damsel, with the best inten
tions in the world. But Violet and
Peony, each seizing their father by the
hand, earnestly besought him not to
make her come in.
“ Dear father,” cried Violet, putting
herself before him, “ it is true what 1
have been telling you ! This is our lit
tle snow-girl, and she cannot live any
longer than while she breathes the cold
west-wind. Do not make her come in
to the hot room!”
“Yes, father,” shouted Peony, stamp
ing his little foot, so mightily was he
in earnest, —“this he nothing but our
’ittle snow-child ! She will not love the
hot fire !”
“ Nonsense, children, nonsense, non
sense !” cried the father, hall-vexed,
half-laughing at what he considered
their foolish obstinacy. “Hun into the
house, this moment! It is too late to
play any longer, now. I must take
care of this little girl immediately, or
she will catch her death-a-cold !”
“ Husband !—dear husband !” said
his wife, in a low voice; for she had
been looking narrowly at the snow
child, and was more perplexed than
ever, —“There is something very sin
gular in all this. You will think me
foolish—but—but —may it not be that
some invisible angel has been attract
ed by the simplicity and good-faith
with which our children set about their
undertaking? May he not have spent
an hour of his immortality in playing
THIRD VOLUME.—NO. 32 WHOLE NO 132.
with those dear little souls ? —and so
the result is what we call a miracle.—
No, no! Do not laugh at me, l see
what- a foolish thought it is ?”
“My dear wife,” replied the husband,
laughing hpartily, “you are as much a
child as Violet and Peony.”
And, in one sense, so she was; for,
all through life, she had kept her heart
full of child-like simplicity and faith,
which was as pure and clear as crystal;
and, looking at ail matters through this
transparent medium, she sometimes
saw truths, so profound, that other peo
ple laughed at them as nonsense and
absurdity.
But now kind Mr. Lindsey had en
tered the garden, breaking away from
his two children, who still sent their
shrill voices after him, beseeching him
to let the snow-child stay and enjoy
herself in the cold west-wind. As he
approached, the. snow birds took to
flight. The little white damsel also,
fled backward, shaking her head as if
to say—“ Pray do not touch me !”
and roguishly, as it appeared, leading
him through the deepest of the snow.
Once, the good man stumbled, and
floundered down upon his face; so that,
gathering himself up again, with the
snow sticking to his rough pilot-cloth
sack, i looked as white and wintry as
asc v-image of the largest size. Some
of the neighbours, meanwhile, seeing
him from their windows, wondered
what could possess poor Mr. Lindsey to
be running about his garden in pursuit
of a snow-drift, which the west-wind was
driving hither and thither! At length
after a vast deal of trouble, lie. chased
the little stranger into a corner, where
she could not possibly escape him.—
llis wife had been looking on, and, it
being nearly .twilight, was wonder
struck to observe how the snow-child
gleamed and sparkled, and how she
seemed to shed a glow all round about
her, and when driven into the corner,
she positively glistened like a star! It
was a frosty kind ot brightness, too,
like that of an icicle in the moonlight.
The wife thought it strange that good
Mr. Lindsey shou.d see nothing re
markable in the snow child’s appear
ance.
“Come, you odd little thing !” cried
• the honest man, seizing her by the hand.
“ I have caught you at last, and will
make you comfortable in spite of your
self. We will put a nice warm pair
of worsted stockings on your frozen
little feet ; and you shall iiave a good
thick shawl to wrap yourself in. Your
poor white nose, i am afraid, is actually
frost bitten. But we will make it ail
right. Come along in !”
And so, with a most benevolent
smile on his sagacious visage, all purple
tis it was with the cold, this very well
meaning gentleman took the snow-child
by the hand and led her toward the
house. She followed him, droopingly
and reluctant; for all the glow and
sparele was gone out of her figure; and,
whereas, just before, she had resembled
a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening,
with a crimson gleam on the cold ho
rizon, she now looked as dull and lan
guid as a thaw. As kind Mr Lindsey
led her up the steps of the door, Vio
let and Peony looked into his face—
their eyes full of tears which froze be
fore they could run down their cheeks
—and again entreated him not to bring
their snow-image into the house.
“ Not bring her in !” exclaimed the
kind hearted man. “ Why you are
crazy, my little Violet!—quite crazy,
my small Peony ! She is so cold, al
ready, that her hand has almost frozen
mine, in spite of my thick gloves.—
\\ ould you have her freeze to death ?”
Ilis wife, as he came up the steps,
had been taking another long, earnest,
almost awe-stricken gaze at the little
white stranger. She hardly knew
whether it was a dream or no ; but she
could not help fancying that she saw
the delicate print of Violet’s fingers on
the child’s neck, It looked just as if,
while Violet was shaping out the image,
she had given it a gentle pat with her
hand, and had uegiected to smooth the
impression quite away.
“ After all, husband,” said the mo
ther, recurring to her idea, that the
angels would be as much delighted to
play with Violet and Peony as she her
self was, “alter all she does look strange
ly likaa snow-image! 1 do believe she
is made of snow !”
A puff of the west-wind blew against
the snow-child ; and again she sparkled
like a star.
“Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lind
sey, drawing the reluctant guest over
his hospitable threshold. “No wonder
she looks like snow. She is half-frozen,
poor little thing ! But a good fire will
put everything to rights.”
Without further talk, and always
with the same host intentions, this
highly benevolent and common-sensi
ble individual led the little white dam
sel—drooping,drooping, drooping, more
and more—out of the frosty air,- and
into his comfortable parlour. A Heid
enbeg stove, filled to the brim with in
tensely burning anthracite, was send
ing a bright gleam through the isinglass
of its iron door, and causing the vase
of water on its top to fume and bubble
with excitement. A warm, sultry
smell was diffused throughout the room,
A thermometer, on the wall farthest
from the stove, stood at eighty de
grees. The parlour was hung with red
curtains, and covered with a red carpet,
and looked just as warm as it felt.—
The difference betwixt the atmosphere
here, and the cold, wintry twilight out
of doors, was like stepping at once
from Nova Zembla to the hottest part
of India, or from the North-pole into
an oven. Oh, this was a fine place for
the little white stranger !
The common-sensible man placed
the snow child on the hearth-rug, right
in front of the hissing and fuming stove.
“ Now she will be comfortable!’
cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands
and looking about him, with the plea
santest smile you ever saw. “ Make
yourself at home my child !”
Sad, sad, and drooping looked the
little white maidetvas she stood on the
hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the
stove striking through her like a pesti
lence. Once, she threw a glance wist
fully toward the windows, and caught
a glimpse through its red curtains, of
the snow-covered roofs, and the stars
glimmering frostily, and all the deli
cious intensity of the cold night. The
bleak wind rattled the window-panes,
as if it were summoning her to come
forth. But there stood the snow-child,
drooping, before the hot stove !
lint the common-sensible man saw
nothing amiss.
“ Come, wife/’ said he, “let her have
a pair of thick stockings and a woolen
shawl or blanket directly; and tell Do
ra to give her some warm sapper as
soon as the milk boils. You, Violet
and Peony, amuse your little friend.—
She is out of spirits, you see, at find
ing herself in a strange place. For
my part, 1 will go around among the
neighbours, and find out where she be
longs.”
The mother, meanwhile, has gone in
search of the shawl and stockings ; for
her own view of the matter, however
subtle and delicate, had given away,
as it always did, to the stubborn mate
rialism of her husband. \Y ithout
heeding the remonstrances of her two
children, who still kept murmuring
that their little snow-sister did not love
the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his
departure, shutting the parlour-door
carefully behind him. Turning up the
collar of his sack over his ears, he
emerged from the house, and had bare
ly reached the street-gate, when he was
recalled by the screams of Violet and
Peony, and the rapping of a thimbled
linger agrinst the parlour-window.
“Husband! husband!” cried his
wife, showing her horror-stricken face
through the window-panes. “ There is
no need of going for the child’s pa
rents 1”
“ We told you so, father !” scream
ed \ iolet and Peony, as he reentered
the parlor. “You would bring her in ;
and now our poor—dear—beau-ti-ful
little snow-sister is thawed !”
And their own sweet little faces were
already dissolved in tears so that their
father, seeing what strange things oc
casionally happen in this every-day
world, felt not a little anxious lest his
children might be going to thaw too !
In the utmost perplexity, he demanded
an explanation of his wife. She could
only reply, that being summoned to
the parlour by the cries of Violet and
Peony, she found no trace of the little
white maiden, unless it were the re
mains of a heap of snow, which, while
she was gazing at it, molted quite away
upon the hearth-rug.
” And there you see all that is left
of it 1 added she, pointing to a pool
of water, in front of the stove.
“ \ es, father, ‘said Violot, looking
reproachfully at him, through her tears,
“there is all that is left of our dear little
snow-sister!”
“Naughty father!” cried Peony,
stamping his foot, and—l shudder to
say—bilking his little fist at the com
mon-sensible man. “We told you how
it would be! \Y hat for did you bring
her in V-
And the Ileidenberg stove, through
the isinglass of its door, seem and to glare
at good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed
demon, triumphing in the mischief
which it had done !
This, you will observe, was one of
those rare cases, which yet will occa
sionally happen, where common-sense
finds itselt at fault, ihe remarkable
story of the snow-image, though, to
that sagacious class of people to whom
good Mr. Li idsey belongs, it may seem
but a ch di .h atl’air, is neverthelesss,
capable of being moralized in various
methods, greatly for their edification.
Due ot its lessons, for instance, might
be, that it behooves men, and especial
ly men of benevolence to consider well
what they are about, and, before acting
on their philanthropic purposes, to be
quite sure that they comprehend the
nature and all the relations of the busi
ness in hand. What has been esta
blished as an element of good to one
being, may prove absolute mischief to
another; even as the warmth of the
parlour was proper enough for children
of flesh and blood, like Violet and Pe
ony—though by no means very whole
some, even for them—but involved
nothing short of annihilation to the un
fort u nate snow-image.
Hut, after all, there is no teaching
anything to wise men of good Mr.
Lindsey t stamp. They know every
thing—Oh, to be sure !—everything
that has been, and everything that is,
and everything that, by any future pos
sibility, can be. And, should some
phenomenon of nature or providence
system they will not re
cognize it, even if it come to pass un
der their very noses.
“ Wife,” said Mr. Lindsey, after a
fit ot silence, ■“see what a quantity of
snow the children have brought in on
their feet! It has made quite a puddie
here before the stove. Pray tell Do
ra to bring some towels and sop it up!”
Woman of Spirit. — The San Fran
cisco Evening Picayune says that Mrs.
Jane M. \\ heeler, a very beautiful and
intelligent lady, was recently brought
up in that city for an assault on a fel
low named Coney. It appears that
the lady, having been grossly insulted
by Caney, on the voyage out, walked
into the cabin, accompanied by her
husband and some other gentlemen,
and after reproaching the scoundrel for
his insolence, took olf her satin slipper
and slapped his face soundly with it!
The lady was instantly discharged by
dudge Hoffman; and the Picayune
significantly remarks that “Mr. Caney
had better immos this ranch.”
When you take an article to an
editor expecting to hear directly wheth
or he will or won’t print it, you mmht
better take along a horsewhip. If not,
he will be apt to consider it more rea
sonable and proper that your article
should wait its turn for perusal aud
judgment, than that he should put aside
the work pressing upon him, in order to
s uit your convenience.— N. Y. Tribune.