Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;--
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered,
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's tight caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word;
I hate to go above you,
Because,"--the brown eyes lower fell,--
"Because, you see, I love you!"
Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing.
He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumphs and his loss,
Like her,--because they love him.
_Whittier._
* * * * *
WATERLOO.
It struck my imagination much, while standing on the last field fought by
Bonaparte, that the battle of Waterloo should have been fought on a Sunday.
What a different scene did the Scotch Grays and English Infantry present,
from that which, at that very hour, was exhibited by their relatives, when
over England and Scotland each church-bell had drawn together its
worshippers! While many a mother's heart was sending up a prayer for her
son's preservation, perhaps that son was gasping in agony.
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