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��A KHAPSODY ON OLD CLOTHES.
��lessly aside soon after that to give place to bridal flowers, but your roses are still faintly blushing in memory of the kiss they guarded that night — what kiss so perfect as a kiss sub rosa?
In a corner, almost hidden from my prying eyes, is a pair of tiny red shoes. The restless feet that once pattered about in them are lightly keeping time, in high- heeled French absurdities, to the witch- ing strains of a Strauss waltz. Helen and her brother Tom wonder why their an- cient aunt will romance over their cast- off habiliments, and scoff good-natured- ly, and ask me to give my opinion of a new bit of Limoges with no earthly asso- ciation in which I have an interest. Now Tom's Knickerbockers'" amuse me vastly more than a Satsuma or Nankin cup. They have patched knees, and bits of string, chipped marbles, crumbling chalk, and all the olla podrida a boy usu- ally carries, are still in the much-abused pockets. Tom half blushes as I shake out these childish garments, and says, " It's deuced queer that you should keep such baby things ; " but he adds compas- sionately, " women are such romantic geese."
Yes, he is a mighty senior now; he carries a cane, smokes many and strong Havanas, whistles " Fair Harvard," and considers himself altogether too manly and practical to see a story in his old " small clothes." but in his heart of hearts I know he wishes he were, if only for a day, a Knickerbockeredboy again, climbing trees, playing for "keeps," and going nightly to confess all his naughty acts to his mother. He has out- grown these things, but however much he scoffs. I know the sturdy little knee breeches have stirred sweet and bitter memories in his heart even more deeply than in that of the " goose."
Ah ! hush ! Here, folded tenderly in fine linen, is an epic bound in blue and
��gold. It is a lieutenant's coat. The gilt braid is dull ; the eagles on the few re- maining buttons are barely discernible. I read with filling eyes this sad, grand poem. The poor faded coat lies before me. a mute, blind Homer. I close my eyes, and I hear the roar and din of can- non, the whistling of bullets, the tramp- ing and snorting of horses, the groans of the dying. The hero who proudly wore this is dead, shot through the heart. Here on the breast is a dark stain where his life blood flowed -away. Ah! how it moans out the solemn, terrible tragedy of those awful years of carnage !
And now, O, scoffer, can you speak lightly of old clothes? Why, here is a white silk whose slim waist has been en- circled by the arm of the fair-haired Duke — no, no, I'll forbear, and will not be as eloquent as I can, lest your unac- customed mind lose itself in the mazes of my fancy.
But let me give you a word of advice. Be not too eager to put aside old gar- ments. There is a certain air of respec- tability and refinement about an old but well preserved dress that gives the wear- er an enviable individuality and impor- tance. A dress that has traveled and seen the world — how much to be pre- ferred to a garment ostentatiously new, that has, perhaps, a vulgar, shop odor. New clothes are so pretentious, so push- ing, so grasping. But my prophetic eyes see coming the golden age for old clothes, for I know a maiden who has dared wear the same hat two winters, and I take heart of hope and smile defi- antly on the man who jovially offers to take all your old clothes and give you a very small red Bohemian (?) glass rose. I say to him, " My good Othello, your occupation will soon be gone, for we are growing wise in our day and genera- tion."
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