Category: belles-lettres

From Ailenroc’s Book, by Cornelia Alexander

Twilight throws her dusty mantle
Over earth and over sea,
And the gentle dews are falling
On the flowers that dot the lea.

The bright stars are looking downward,
And the moon resplendent shines,
Making dewdrops sparkle brilliant
As the gems that fill the mines.

There is one who just has left her;
Long years she has loved him well,
But his words to-night have filled her
With a bliss she cannot tell.

Yes, he told the old, old story;
But to her ‘twas strange and new.
Now the world seems doubly glorious,
Sparkling through its veil of dew.

From Ailenroc’s Book, by Cornelia Alexander

When Jeems Henry’s name first appeared in the Buglehorn as a candidate for the office of constable, I was just as proud as proud could be. Jeems Henry always stood high in my estimation, and I was glad that others had a good opinion of him also. To be sure, it was not much of an office, but Jeems Henry soon reconciled me to that. He illustrated it by a ladder, and made it look beautiful to my eyes. Of course, every one knows that you ascend a ladder step by step and round by round, and I must confess that I built in my imagination a stairway that rivaled Jacob’s; only, his led to heaven, and mine to the presidency.

It was a right pretty little notice that was in the paper. Things were said of Jeems Henry that I could have told them long before, concerning his good looks, good morals, and fine sense, and I took real pleasure in reading it. “Several friends” wrote it out, so it said, and I was wrathy all over when the opposition hinted that it was Jeems Henry himself. But he didn’t run after office—not he. He told me in confidence that if his party chose to give it to him, he would accept, but he did not ask for office.

Old Peter Doolittle ran against him, and, like an old scamp, as he is, he must rake up a great chance of tales against Jeems Henry, and narrate them all over the country, till, if I hadn’t known them to be false, I couldn’t have voted for him myself. But Jeems Henry paid him back in his own coin. He picked up some things about old Peter that were true, and published them in the Buglehorn, and old Peter’s son sent Jeems Henry word that he would thrash him on first sight. After that you may know I was uneasy all the time. I was troubled all day and dreamed bad dreams all night, till I wished the election was safely over. Read More

From Ailenroc’s Book, by Cornelia Alexander

I have set out to write my autobiography, and I believe that I shall not go back to the first of my existence and tell how the flax and cotton grew, was made into cloth, was worn out, and finally went as assorted rags to the paper mill; neither shall I tell how I was soaked, rubbed, pressed, glazed, cut, ruled, and sent out as writing paper; but I will tell you how I was laid away in a clean bureau drawer, perfumed with lavender and rose leaves, and was one day brought out and laid on a little table before the window, where sat an old lady with a placid, benevolent expression on her still comely face, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles upon her nose, and gray curls escaping from her white cap.  She held a pen in her hand, and an old-fashioned inkstand sat with its mouth wide open, ready to do its part toward writing a letter; and I can assure you that I was ready, for I wished to be of use.  Mine had been an active existence, and I was anxious to try the novelty of my new life.

As I had been housed up so long, I took a whiff of fresh air and glanced about me.  It was a cozy little room; the rag carpet on the floor looked warm and cozy.  There was a crackling fire in the grate—for it was cool October—yet through the window I saw late flowers blossoming in the yard, clambering vines ruddy with glowing leaves, and a stretch of woods that I cannot describe—gold and scarlet flamed from the tree tops, and the lower bushes were one mass of glowing colors.

The dear old lady began to write.  When she had, with old-fashioned precision, put the day, the month, the year, she began: “My Dear Child.”  Then I knew that I should carry the message of a loving mother to a far-away child, and I was glad that my first mission was to be so holy a one.  As the letter progressed, I found she was writing to a daughter.  She gave her a glimpse of the old home, clad in its autumnal glory; messages from old friends and neighbors; and, lastly, a page of motherly counsel.  When she had concluded the letter, signing herself, “Your loving mother,” she laid her cheek softly against it for a moment, and I heard her lips moving, as if in prayer.  When she laid me down, a big tear fell with a splash upon me.  I carry the mark of that tear yet.  Then she added a postscript—“I send my little grandchild and namesake a bit of money to buy a new dress”—placed a smooth two-dollar bill within my folds, slipped me into an envelope with a three-cent stamp upon it, and called: “Mary Ann, Mary Ann!”  Mary Ann appeared, and I was consigned to her tender mercies, and she was told to hurry to the post office.  Then I took my last look at the pleasant little room, the kind-looking old lady, and hurried down the road in Mary Ann’s grimy palm.  She was a mulatto, with a great quantity of kinky hair standing out like a halo around her saffron-colored face.  I inferred that she was quite a scholar, from the way she translated the name and address on my face, and once I trembled for fear she had no respect for the sanctity of a seal. Read More