The Van Buren Press

For the Van Buren Press.

Little Graves in the Heart.

In a dingy and smoke begrimed city, in the second story of a dingy house, an apprentice plied his daily task. Before the shining coursers of the sun had planted their golden foot upon the summit of the mountains, his work began, and ceased only when the weary day had sunk to rest in the lap of soothing night.

A boyish face and hands roughened by toil, marked him a son and heir of Poverty. Days and weeks chased each other in their rapid march to eternity, and still the apprentice at his window plied his laborious task, and his shapely fingers lost their symmetry by the constant pressure of relentless toil, and the cloud of friendless poverty was creeping slowly about his heart, and life's young morning seemed sinking into gloom and darkness.

One ray of light fell upon his path. His eyes would involuntarily steal from the work before him and rest upon an opposite window, where a young girl sat and plied her busy needle or poured over a favorite book. 'It may have been that distance lent enchantment to the view,' for to him she seemed the embodiment of beauty; her neck rivaled the polished ivory and her forehead the clear marble, and her full dark eyes were mirrors of affection and beauty. The boy's mind would wander from his work and hopeful fancy soon began to build ephemeral castles in the air. A vine clad cottage stood in a country village: honeysuckles and roses draped it with garlands of beauty, and filled the air with their rich perfume. In the cool and shady veranda, sat a woman young and beautiful, her busy pencil keeping time to the rocking of the cradle, where innocence itself was sweetly sleeping. The large Newfoundland dog lay at its side, the watchful guardian of its unconscious occupant. Comfortable neatness reigned about the premises, and as the lingering rays of the setting sun had reluctantly withdrawn their golden pencil rays from the tree tops of the surrounding hills, and the shadows of evening were heralding the approach of sombre night, came the husband and father, a smile and kiss greeted him upon the threshold, the cheerful evening meal awaited his coming and baby held out its chubby arms and soon was nestling in his bosom. But labor and its realities cut short the work of fancy, and the beautiful picture faded into nothingness. But still the face at the window wound a silken thread about his heart more tenacious than the pliant steel, and stronger than fetters of iron.

A few short months had passed away and the beautiful face was seen no more. A funeral notice sounded the death knell to the affections of the boy, and plucked from his firmament the shining star of hope, and the gloomy darkness of disappointment settled upon his young heart and life seemed but a dreary desert to a lonely, friendless traveler. He followed thy mourning friends where they laid her beautiful form. Although no word had ever passed between them, yet no friend followed that mournful bier with a sadder heart. As the grave received the silent dust, the falling clods sounded the death knell of earthly hopes and in the deep recesses of that boyish heart were buried the first pure love and brightest hopes of youth. An oft shoveled the little mound that held his buried hopes, he dropped the silent tear upon it quite to sum. The long grass waved its graceful head when kissed by the gentle zephyr and sung its wailing dirge, a long, last lingering look, a deep drawn sigh and the young man left the place forever. Though many years have passed away and left their footprints on his hardening features, still the little grave within the heart is as fresh and green to-day as when the earth first closed upon the loved and lost, and the last tear-drop fell upon the grass that waved a last and sad farewell to departed hopes.