Cheer and Children.

What a glow there is to the sun!  What warmth—­yet it does not oppress you:  what coolness—­yet it is not too cool.  The birds sing sweetly; you catch yourself watching to see what new songsters they can be:  they are only the old robins and thrushes, yet what a new melody is in their throats!

The clouds hang gorgeous shapes upon the sky,—­shapes they could hardly ever have fashioned before.  The grass was never so green, the buttercups were never so plentiful; there was never such a life in the leaves.  It seems as if the joyousness in you gave a throb to nature that made every green thing buoyant.

Faces, too, are changed:  men look pleasantly; children are all charming children; even babies look tender and lovable.  The street-beggar at your door is suddenly grown into a Belisarius, and is one of the most deserving heroes of modern times.  Your mind is in a continued ferment; you glide through your toil—­dashing out sparkles of passion—­like a ship in the sea.  No difficulty daunts you:  there is a kind of buoyancy in your soul that rocks over danger or doubt, as sea-waves heave calmly and smoothly over sunken rocks.

You grow unusually amiable and kind; you are earnest in your search of friends; you shake hands with your office-boy as if he were your second cousin.  You joke cheerfully with the stout washerwoman, and give her a shilling over-change, and insist upon her keeping it, and grow quite merry at the recollection of it.  You tap your hackman on the shoulder very familiarly, and tell him he is a capital fellow; and don’t allow him to whip his horses, except when driving to the post-office.  You even ask him to take a glass of beer with you upon some chilly evening.  You drink to the health of his wife.  He says he has no wife; whereupon you think him a very miserable man, and give him a dollar by way of consolation.

You think all the editorials in the morning papers are remarkably well written,—­whether upon your side, or upon the other.  You think the stock-market has a very cheerful look, even with Erie—­of which you are a large holder—­down to seventy-five.  You wonder why you never admired Mrs. Hemans before, or Stoddard, or any of the rest.

You give a pleasant twirl to your fingers as you saunter along the street, and say,—­but not so loud as to be overheard,—­“She is mine; she is mine!”

You wonder if Frank ever loved Nelly one half as well as you love Madge.  You feel quite sure he never did.  You can hardly conceive how it is that Madge has not been seized before now by scores of enamored men, and borne off, like the Sabine women in Roman history.  You chuckle over your future, like a boy who has found a guinea in groping for sixpences.  You read over the marriage service,—­thinking of the time when you will take her hand, and slip the ring upon her finger,—­and repeat, after the clergyman, “for richer—­for poorer; for better—­for worse!” A great deal of “worse” there will be about it, you think!