Litchfield Enquirer

The Season.

This is the season of festivity and mirth. The heart and hand of mankind are more accessible, perhaps, at this season of the year than at any other. And every face looks merry and delighted.

Those who have plenty of this world's goods can set by their fireside and enjoy the comforts of a good grate of Lehigh, the innocent prattling of their children, and the grave converse of friends. But how, let us ask, is it with the poor? Have they plenty wherewith to make them warm and satisfy the cravings of unrelenting hunger?

How many drink the cup
Of baneful grief; or eat the bitter bread
Of misery! more pierced by winter winds,
Of cheerless poverty!

Many are the widows and the orphans—who, while they cast glances through the broken pane, at the merry faces and happy countenances of the affluent, and see them in the full tide of enjoyment, with heaping tables and crowded larders—are pining over a few dying embers, with hardly a single garment to their backs or a penny loaf to eat!

There is no action of a man's life that is better calculated to give an unalloyed gratification, than that which relieves the wants of a fellow creature. While he is enjoying the gifts of Heaven, he rejoices that he has been able to extend in some measure, like enjoyments to others, and when he lies down at night how comfortable is the reflection that he has fed the hungry, or clothed the naked, or visited the sick. It is then that a "still small voice." of approbation whispers to the conscience "inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me."—Delaware Adv.