THE REPUBLIC. VOL. III. NEW YORK, JANUARY, 1852. No. 1. MY FIRST KISS: OR, THE LAST TIME OF ASKING. A CONNECTICUT SLEIGHING SCENE. BY THOMAS R. WHITNEY. first person singular," as our schoolmaster had it in my day. Her name was—but that is none of your business; so, for the sake of a name, we will suppose it to have been "Mercy"-that will do - Mercy Daven GOD bless the snow! Isn't it cheerful! | hearth and roof of your very obedient “the The smooth, white, virgin sheet, as it lies upon the earth, undulating and sparkling in the moonlight like a diamond prairie, relieved only here and there in its glittering monotony by a skeleton tree, a half-covered stone wall, or the leeward side of a bluffy promontory! And all so still, too-the velvet surface reflecting no sound, emitting no voice, and the surrounding atmosphere so passive and quiet, that the echo of even a well-meant kiss startles the air with a crispy vibration, and makes the heart of the coy maiden leap into her throat! God bless the snow! I love it. And I have good reason, too, as you shall learn, if you will have a little patience; for as I am a married man, and a happy fellow for a countryman, I am compelled by the force of facts to associate all my joyous domestic reflections, and garnish all my retrospective congratulations, with the ante-memorial of a Connecticut snow-scene. Ten years ago I was rayther a youth, yet as ardent and uncompromising in self-conceit as any thrice-crowned veteran; but the overruling genius of my destiny-the star of all my ambition-the food of my most glowing aspirations-the magic wand that could, on a motion, quell my pride, and cause my vanity to shrink back into the insignificance of just nothing, was a fair damsel of a neighboring village, five miles from the paternal never mind the surname, it is so long since she bore it, that we have all nearly forgotten it ever belonged to her. I had been nigh about two years doing my prettiest to get Mercy to say YES to my most "honorable proposition," and all to no purpose. She wa'n't cold-hearted nor offish towards me, and always seemed glad to see me, and sorry to have me go away; and I know she never would consent to ride out, or walk out, or sit up with any other of the forty-nine beaux that beset her blessed home; and yet, to save my picture, I couldn't get her to listen to such a thing as love or matrimony. I could talk to her by the hour on all other subjects, and her dear voice would respond to mine in tones like the notes of a sweet-toned instrument, and her eye would brighten with discourse, and her soul become absorbed as our theme went on; but when I spoke of love, it always seemed as though a dash of cold water had been thrown upon a cheerful fire, quenching at once both light and warmth. To press her hand even at the hour of the last goodnight was a feat requiring no little nerve, |