Fanny Fern - Fern Leaves from Fanny's Port-folio.

There’s a ring at the door, and Mr. Frank – is announced. You say, “Unmitigated puppy!” and begin a vehement discussion with your aunt, about anything that comes handy; but that don’t prevent you from seeing and hearing all that goes on at the other side of the room. Your aunt is very oblivious, and wouldn’t mind it if you occasionally lost the thread of your discourse. Kitty is the least bit of a coquette! and her conversation is very provocative, racy and sparkling; you privately determine to read her a lecture upon it, as soon as practicable.

It seems as though Mr. Frank – never would go. Upon his exit, Kitty informs you that she is going to Madame – ’s concert with him. You look serious, and tell her you “should be very sorry to see a cousin of yours enter a concert room with such a brainless fop.” Kitty tosses her curls, pats you on the arm, and says, “ Jealous , hey?” You turn on your heel, and, lighting a cigar, bid her “good-morning,” and for a little eternity of a week you never go near her. Meantime, your gentlemen friends tell you how “divine” your little cousin looked at the concert.

You are in a very bad humor; cigars are no sedative – newspapers either. You crowd your beaver down over your eyes and start for your office. On the way you meet Kitty! Hebe! how bright and fresh she looks! and what an unmitigated brute you’ve been to treat her so! Take care! she knows what you are thinking about! Women are omniscient in such matters! So she peeps archly from beneath those long eyelashes, and says, extending the tip of her little gloved hand – “Want to make up, Harry?”

There’s no resisting! That smile leads you, like a will-o’-the-wisp, anywhere! So you wait upon her home; nobody comes in, not even your respected aunt; and you never call her “cousin,” after that day; but no man living ever won such a darling little wife, as Kitty has promised to be to you, some bright morning.

Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast – they’ve no more work to do; close the weary eyes – they’ve no more tears to shed; part the damp locks – there’s no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear alike to Love’s kind voice, and Calumny’s stinging whisper.

Oh! if in that stilled heart you have ruthlessly planted a thorn; if from that pleading eye you have carelessly turned away; if your loving glance, and kindly word, and clasping hand, have come — all too late – then God forgive you! No frown gathers on the marble brow as you gaze – no scorn curls the chiselled lip – no flush of wounded feeling mounts to the blue-veined temples.

God forgive you! for your feet, too, must shrink appalled from death’s cold river – your faltering tongue ask, “Can this be death?” – your fading eye linger lovingly on the sunny earth – your clammy hand yield its last faint pressure – your sinking pulse give its last feeble flutter.

Oh, rapacious grave; yet another victim for thy voiceless keeping! What! no word or greeting from all thy household sleepers? No warm welcome from a sister’s loving lips? No throb of pleasure from the dear maternal bosom?

Silent all!

Oh, if these broken links were never gathered up! If beyond Death’s swelling flood there were no eternal shore! If for the struggling bark there were no port of peace! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang no bright bow of promise!

Well, I think I’ll finish that story for the editor of the “Dutchman.” Let me see; where did I leave off? The setting sun was just gilding with his last ray – “Ma, I want some bread and molassess” – (yes, dear,) gilding with his last ray the church spire – “Wife, where’s my Sunday pants?” ( Under the bed, dear ,) the church spire of Inverness, when a – “There’s nothing under the bed, dear, but your lace cap” – (Perhaps they are in the coal hod in the closet,) when a horseman was seen approaching – “Ma’am, the pertators

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