UNIVERSITY COURIER.
7
first selecting several at which he hastily glances. He is one of our best merchants, a thriving, go-ahead business man. He comes to the post office as he does everything else, in a hurry; and often times is so lost in thought, or deep in some speculation, that he passes his best friend without recognizing him.
But what a forlorn face is that, and what a pitiful voice asks if "there might be a letthers from Mike," and when the reply comes, "Nothing for Biddy Flanigan," how sadly she turns away. Poor Biddy, if she might only get the 'letthers' for which she asks each day, and which never comes. "From Mike, yez knows, who wint to Sacarrow, yez call it, sax weeks ago come Saturday, and sure and he promised to write to me as soon as iver he was settled on the road, and niver a word have I had." And she goes home to the "childer," her honest heart filled with love for Mike, and vexation at the "letther man," because the longed-for message is not forthcoming.
Bless me! what is this? A young whirlwind or an embryo cyclone perhaps. Hold fast to your cane, my friend, and take good care that your feet are out of the way, for Young America is not at all backward, and this is the advance guard from yonder school house. The others will be here as soon as may be, bless their bright eyes and lively tongues. Come to the post office? Of course they do, every lad and lassie of them. And what a jolly time they have, what secrets are told, what plans laid for next day's fun, while they are waiting until their turn shall come, and they may be allowed the privilege of looking into the enchanted window, and singing out, at the tops of their shrill little voices, the oft repeated question, "Anything for our folks?" Little do they care whether the answer be yes or no, they have "gone to the office," as is the duty of every well-regulated school boy or girl, and each chatter-box is soon on the homeward road.
But look this way, if you please. The window is suddenly possessed of a sturdy pair of scarlet-stockinged legs, waving wildly about in the air, like two signals of distress. You soon see that the aforesaid legs are the property of a small boy, who, by a series of enterprising springs, has succeeded in balancing himself on the broad ledge, and is wriggling and kicking in frantic efforts to preserve his equilibrium. That urchin is quite an autocrat in his diminutive way. He comes to the office at least six times a day, always demanding immediate attention, and usually gets it, for everybody knows it is the easiest way to get rid of him. But the small boy has yielded his place to a group of our "colored sisters," who are having much amusement at the expense of one of their number. She has received a letter, and no fair lady ever viewed a dainty, perfumed billet doux with more evident delight than does this proud ebony damsel the huge yellow envelope, which contains such important tidings. But these noisily make way for others, and they, in turn, for others, forming a veritable panorama, with ever changing views.
Each face, as it appears, bears its own stamp. A thousand different ideas are suggested, innumerable comical episodes occur. My friend, have you enjoyed your half-hour at the post office? SENRAB.
L. H. Leach, 184, spent part of the holidays at Spring Hill, visiting his friend Albert Riffle. He returned, however, some time before school began.
HEART IN LITERATURE.
Of the writing of many books there seems indeed to be no end. Thoughts take definite form, find their way to the press, and from thence pass to the reading public in books. But what is it that determines the popularity and perpetuity of books? Or having gained sufficient favor to find an entrance into our libraries, what is the reason that some volumes stand forever in their allotted place, undusted, unsoiled, unread; while others are worn and thumbed, their cards full of names. These are read, quoted, learned by heart; some of their expressions pass into the common currency of the language.
It is not because the authors of the first class lack merit. They excell their more fortunate rivals in culture, imagination, and the outward form of expression. Yet if they have not feeling they will be discarded. In literature as in everything, it is the heart that tells more than all else. It is the soul of an author breaking through his works that gives them life and vigor, and keeps them always in the literature.
As the first example of an author who wrote from his heart, I shall mention Burns—simple Bobby Burns. He wrote, or rather sang, like the very birds above him, guided only by instinct, taught only by nature. He simply felt the music in his heart, and he let it bubble forth. Only a poor peasant lad who had to follow, at the same time, his muse and his plough. Yet this did not restrain him. He addressed odes to the daisies which his plough-share covered over, and one of his sweetest songs is "To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest with a plough." A circumstance homely and unpoetical enough, it seems to us, but from Burns it called forth this simple and tender stanza:
"But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane In proving foresight might be vain. The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang oft n-gley, And leave us naught but grief and pain For promised joy."
Burns had little leisure for writing. Throughout life he had to perform manual labor,and at several times he was acquainted with want.
But he rose above his circumstances, he was
"A man for a' that and a' that."
He loved the humble scenes around him, and in the simple, hearty, Scotch dialect, he wove them into songs that will be sung when other more favored, but less feeling bards, are long forgotten.
The poet whom we delight to honor, our loved, lamented Longfellow, was, unlike the Scottish songster, a man of the broadest education, the highest culture, but there is the same sweet simplicity. His thoughts are clothed in the choicest diction, yet they are none the less the promptings of his heart.
For his extraordinary mental attainments we admire him, but for his tender feeling human heart we love him. It is this that gives his works a place in every household, and his thoughts a lodgment in every heart.
And what is it that pleases us in Dickens. Not the story for the stories sake, for this would often times prove tedious. Not no much for his wonderful insight into character, or his inimitable style. But above all, it is his broad and boundless charity, that makes him loved and read. His writings are but the outward expressions of a heart filled with kindness for the weaker