Reveries of a Bachelor; or, A Book of the Heart

by Donald Grant Mitchell

The woods and lawns, by living streams, at eve,

Let health, my nerves and finer fibers brace,

And I, their toys, to the great children, leave.

Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can we bereave!

But—if not alone?

If she is clinging to you for support, for consolation, for home, for life—she, reared in luxury, perhaps, is faint for bread?

Then the iron enters the soul; then the nights darken under any skylight. Then the days grow long, even in the solstice of winter.

She may not complain; what then?

Will your heart grow strong, if the strength of her love can dam up the fountains of tears, and the tied tongue not tell of bereavement? Will it solace you to find her parting the poor treasure of food you have stolen for her, with begging, foodless children?

But this ill, strong hands and Heaven’s help will put down. Wealth again; flowers again; patrimonial acres again; brightness again. But your little Bessie, your favorite child, is pining.