Cupid's Middleman Part 8

You and I in H, middle aisle at Daly's, to-morrow night. Jolliest show in town under these rare circ.u.mstances. If I come early, you must pardon me, for I shall be so eager to meet you again.

The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees, Their minstrelsy unite, But all are drear, till thou appear To decorate the night.

Sincerely yours,

JAMES HOSLEY.

Great Morris! It must have made him squirm in his grave.

April 12,----

Dear Miss Brown:

Thank you for the kind invitation for to-morrow evening.

Sincerely,

JAMES HOSLEY.

April 14,----

Dear Miss Brown:

What a delightful time we all had at Mrs. Pratt's last night! I shall call to talk it over with you to-night.

Sincerely,

JAMES HOSLEY.

April 15,----

Dear Miss Brown:

What a pretty name Margaret is! I had no idea all your friends called you that.

O lingering rose of May!

Dear as when first I met her; Worn is my heart alway, Life-cherished Margaretta.

And when we parted last night, believe me,

As morn was faintly breaking, For many a weary mile, Oh, how my heart was aching!

Sincerely,

JAMES H.

April 17,----

Dear Margaretta:

How long are you to be gone? Write me daily when away, that the period of your absence from town may be as brief as you can make it, to lessen the anguish of the one who "at the trysting place, with tears regrets thee."

I shall be with you early this evening,

Yours as always,

JIM.

April 23,----

Dear Margaretta:

The time drags heavily, and were it not for the cheerful letter that arrives every morning, so full of your enthusiasm for the unfolding beauties of the spring and your tender a.s.surances _occasionally_ given in return to the pleadings that pour from my overflowing heart, it would seem that I could not bear the struggle against life's disappointments. Time? What has time to do with love?

Love cannot be the aloe tree, Whose bloom but once is seen; Go search the grove--the tree of love Is sure the evergreen; For that's the same, in leaf or frame, 'Neath cold or sunny skies; You take the ground its roots have bound Or it, transplanted, dies!

My dear sweetheart, my love for you is the evergreen, and write me, darling, not of the budding trees and the wild flowers so tender in the morning dew, for there is an aggravating indirection to such devotion. Write me, my dearest, so that I may feel

Those tender eyes still rest upon me, love!

I feel their magic spell, With that same look you won me, love.

Oh! these spring days and thoughts of you combine to swell my song to bursting. When, Margaretta, do you return? for I would behold again

Thy form of matchless symmetry, In sweet perfection cast--

I miss thee everywhere, beloved, I miss thee everywhere; Both night and day wear dull away, And leave me in despair.

The banquet hall, the play, the ball, And childhood's sportive glee, Have lost their spell for me, beloved, My soul is full of thee.

Your story of the springtime is very sweet. The descriptions are true to life, and as I read on and on, I behold the exquisite beauties of your character, for as you so lovingly and simply tell of the birds, the flowers, the brook and the mist enshrouding the lowing kine, you artlessly sound the great depths of your own soul.

How I envy the winged denizens of the country! even those black beetles you so playfully refer to on page 18, line 56. I wish _I_ might come in somewhere:--

Has Margaret forgotten _me_, And love I now in vain?

If that be so, my heart can know No rest on earth again.

A sad and weary lot is mine, To love and be forgot; A sad and weary lot, beloved; A sad and weary lot!

And, of course, it pleases me to know they are making much of you up there in the country. I can see the swains for miles around polishing their manners and taking astonishing pains with their Sunday's best, to make a good impression. They, too, are baring their hearts to your melting glances, completely enchanted under the spell of your womanly graces. But believe me, my darling Margaret,

When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine; When other bays have crowned thee, More _fresh_ and _green_ than mine-- Then think how sad and lonely This doting heart will be, Which, while it throbs, throbs only, Beloved one, for thee!

And oh, how I fear, not the spring songs of the birds so mellow with love's endearing persuasion, the whisperings of the soft winds, nor the caprice of the beetles, but the gentle pastorals of those st.u.r.dy rural bards. List not to their tender minstrelsy, my darling! List not to the country poet's song, but hie thee home to thy awaiting Jamie. List not, for--