In the soft sun-shine of Eternal youth.
H.
“THE OMNIBUS.”[1]
[1] An “Omnibus” (this explanation is one of pure politeness on our part, and for the sake of the uninitiated) is a substitute for an Album; in which, any thing, every thing, and nothing, are quartered heterogeneously, and made good friends—supposing all this time that the thing be kept within the pale of proprieties. They are with, or without covers—written in black or red ink—up or down—crossways or otherwise, just as it happens. They were first got up by a certain coterie of ladies, who had sense enough to see that “Albums” are very sentimental and very ridiculous, owing to the extreme nicety with which a man must scribble for them; and that by introducing a little more latitude in this respect, the evil might in a measure be remedied. The result, ’tis thought, has shown their wisdom.
I.
“Come, write in my ‘Omnibus,’” said a sweet girl to me, with an eye that made one’s heart bump, and a lip that made him dream dreams. I looked into that eye, and at that lip—they almost unmanned me, yet I shook my head.
She looked imploringly.
“Can’t,” stammered I at last, though it choked me to say so.
“Pray do,” and she laid her soft white hand on mine. Heavens and Earth! how the touch of that little hand thrilled through me—burnt along my arm—then down into my heart. Yet I remembered my resolution—I made it the day before—I swore by my happiness I’d never touch pen again. Still, there lay that hand—the long tapering fingers—I counted them one way, then t’other—how pretty they looked! I tried to look away—I looked at the four corners of heaven—some how or other, my eyes came right back again. Then I felt a soft pressure, those fingers contracted, they clasped—it was all over with me—the grasp of Hercules were nothing to it.
The first thing I did was to kiss them—the next, find my senses. She blushed, I fidgeted.