A Kentucky cardinal ; and, Aftermath . nds away. For I know in whom I have believed; I knowthat this myriad caprice is but the deepening ofexcitement on the verge of captivity; I knowthat on ahead lie the regions of perpetual calm— my Islands of the Blest. Georgiana does not play upon the pianoforte,or, as Mrs. Walters would declare, she does notperform upon the instrument. Sylvia does; sheperforms, she executes. There are times whenshe will execute a piece called The Last Hopeuntil the neighbours are filled with despair andready to stretch their heads on the block to anymore merciful executio
A Kentucky cardinal ; and, Aftermath . nds away. For I know in whom I have believed; I knowthat this myriad caprice is but the deepening ofexcitement on the verge of captivity; I knowthat on ahead lie the regions of perpetual calm— my Islands of the Blest. Georgiana does not play upon the pianoforte,or, as Mrs. Walters would declare, she does notperform upon the instrument. Sylvia does; sheperforms, she executes. There are times whenshe will execute a piece called The Last Hopeuntil the neighbours are filled with despair andready to stretch their heads on the block to anymore merciful executioner. Nor does Georgi-ana sing to company in the parlour. That isSylvias gift; and upon the whole it was thisunmitigated practice in the bosom — and in theears — of her family that enabled Sylvia toshine with such vocal effulgence in the pro-cession on the last Fourth of July and devotea pair of unflagging lungs to the service of hercountry. n 177 But Georgiana I have never known to singexcept when sewing and alone, as the way of. SYLVIA PERFORMING. women often is. During a walk across thesummer fields my foot has sometimes paused at i78 the brink of a silvery runlet, and I have followedit backward in search of the spring. It maylead to the edge of a dark wood; thence inwarddeeper and deeper; disappearing at last in anook of coolness and shadow, green leaves andmystery. The overheard rill of Georgianasvoice issues from inner depths of being that nohuman soul has ever visited, or perhaps will evervisit. What would I not give to thread my way,bidden and alone, to that far region of uncap-tured loveliness? Of late some of the overheard lullabies havetouched me inexpressibly. They beat upon myear like the musical reveries of future mother-hood — they betoken in Georgianas maiden-hood the dreaming unrest of the maternal. One morning not long ago, with a sort of piti-ful gayety, her song ran in the wise of sayinghow we should gather our rosebuds while wemay. The warning could
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