I know of a little episode in the early life of a doctor, whose name
modesty forbids me to mention. Let me briefly state it in the first
person.
Ah, friend, if you and I should meet
Beneath the boughs of the bending lime,
And you in the same low voice repeat
The tender words of the old love-rhyme,
It could not bring back the same old time--
No, never.
I was young when I first fell in love,--not above six years of age; but
love is without reason, blind to age. The object of my first affection was
my school-_mischief_, as I then called her, who was about twenty. The
disparagement of years never entered my innocent noddle. I used to start
for school a half hour before nine, and stop on the way at the squire's
house, where Miss ---- boarded. O, with what joy I always met her! In
summer she gave me roses from the beautiful great white rose-bushes in the
squire's front yard; in autumn and winter, splendid red and green apples,
from the orchard and cellar, and candy and kisses at all times. So I fell
desperately in love with her.
I was greatly shocked, and not a little piqued, when one day she, in cold
blood, bade me good by, and went away with a tall man, with shocking red
whiskers. That is all I remember about him. I, however, mourned her loss
for years, although my appetite remained unimpaired--my parents said.
"Like a still serpent, basking in the sun,
With subtle eyes, and back of russet gold,
Her gentle tones and quiet sweetness won
A coil upon her victims: fold on fold
She wove around them with her graceful wiles,
Till, serpent-like, she stung amid her smiles."
The next time I saw her was about ten years afterwards. O, with what
pleasant anticipations I hastened to her house! I remembered her every
look--her fair, intelligent face; her wavy black hair; her heavenly
dark-blue eyes. O, I should know her anywhere! Her I never could forget.
[Illustration: TEN YEARS LATER.]
With these thoughts I confidently knocked at the door. "Is Miss ---- at
home?" I inquired of the--servant, I supposed, who opened the door. Just
then three or four dirty-looking little children ran screaming after the
woman, calling out, "Marm, marm!"
"Hush, children, hush!" said the female, and, turning again to me, said,--
"Whom did you inquire for?" pushing back one of the red-headed urchins.
"Miss Mary ----, ma'am," I answered. "She once lived at Blue Hill."
She gave a sickly-looking smile. She looked sick before; her cheeks all
fallen in; her skimmed-milk colored eyes had a weary, anxious expression;
and her thin, bony hands, resting on the door-latch, looked like a
consumptive's, as she said,--
"When did you know her?"
"O, but a few years ago, ma'am. Is she here? Does she live in _this
house_?" I eagerly inquired.
"Well," she replied, with another more sepulchral smile,
"I was once Miss Mary ----. I married Mr. ---- ----, over ten years ago.
My baby, here,"--presenting the second in size of the children to my view,
a reddish-brown haired girl, quite unlike any one I had ever seen before,
and wiping its nose with her calico apron,--"she is named for me, Mary
----. Won't you come in, sir?"
No, I thought I would not stop. I didn't stop till I reached the hotel,
where I had begged the stage-driver to wait for me but a half hour before,
while I called upon the lovely Miss Mary ----.
"O, sunny dreams of childhood,
How soon they pass away!
Like flowers within the wild wood,
They perish and decay."