Alexandria Gazette

From the New York Whig.

THE TWO COUSINS.

COUSIN CHARLES.

My cousin Charles had been absent so long from the part of the country in which my family resided, that I had almost forgotten him; and yet on the morning of his calling to see me, soon after his return, his voice awakened a thousand tender recollections, of 'by-gone days.' When we were children together, a very happy intimacy existed between us, and very often we shared each other's pleasures with something more than a brother's or sister's affection. Now he and I had come to years of maturity—still I was single, and he; I hardly know how to say it, was as handsome as ever, though rather more sedate, and there were a few care-marks on his forehead.

Charles had not sat with me long before he said many kind words, calculated to awaken as many kind feelings in my willing heart:— He talked of old times—old acquaintance— told old stories—went over the old grounds of our country place—the school-house—the nutting ground—the little bridge over the brook, and oh! a thousand things too numerous to mention here, so that when he rose to go away, I found myself asking him two or three times, why he went so soon. I believe he saw my state of feelings, and half rejoiced in it—though he looked very serious as he bade me "good bye."

He called again, he was more lively than before, and talked and laughed with my father and mother—till the evening was almost gone, and then proposed to take a walk with me. I knew not why, but I trembled when I put my arm in his. He seemed to notice, and spoke more kindly than ever.

Our walk was a very long one, and yet the time passed so rapidly, that when we returned to the door, I believe I sighed, and said something about the evening's being short. What he said in reply, I do not exactly remember, for I was really quite agitated as I found him upon the point of bidding me adieu.

Somebody I remember my hand was still in his, as we entered into the sitting room, from which the light had been removed—and in which the objects were somewhat indistinct.

"Mary," said he, "perhaps I shall not see you again in a long time, and I wish to ask you a very serious question. perhaps you will not like to answer me immediately."

He spoke in a soft, gentle tone, and I remember now distinctly how I trembled from head to foot.

"Mary, dear Mary, I wish you to tell me— How many blue beans make five?"

I never answered a word.

COUSIN MARY.

After the laugh at Mary's story had somewhat subsided, I saw that all eyes were turned to me, as if expecting some further explanation. I found it a good opportunity to tell a story, and so proceeded.

That evening to which allusion has already been made, was one of the most delicious, of the very many such, I have had the pleasure of passing through. Several times during my long walk with Mary, I was tempted to declare my passion. It is a fact, that though I had not seen her for years, her image had been with me very often. The impressions of childhood are strong and lasting. Our morning rambles through the fields—our little misunderstandings, like April showers, driven away by the sunshine of better feeling—the stolen kiss of reconciliation—the gift of flowers and fruit, the best always saved for me— all these, though long passed, were revived during that delightful walk, and I felt my heart clinging closer and closer to Mary's.

And there was one thing I discovered, during the evening. Mary loved me; she did not know that I knew it. How should she? I had never asked her, and yet it needed not an eye sharper than my own, to discover it. The man need never be mistaken on this point. Those who go begging and begging after this one and that, know before they begin to beg the fair ones, that they do not love them. But the moment one loves you, you can tell it. Many a time, as I spoke to her, her arm as it lay on mine trembled, and as I would try to catch a moonlight view of her face, it was hid immediately under her pretty straw bonnet. Sometimes when I asked a question, she hardly knew whether to say yes or no. She was a high-minded, noble-hearted girl; yet these traits were given her for other experiences.— In the affair now under consideration, she proved only tender-hearted. Mary loved me.

When we were about entering the house on our return, I saw that the old people had retired to their own room. The hall lamp only was lighted, and as we entered the sitting room, the words were on my lips to ask her to be mine, and I proceeded; but as the first words fell from my lips, my heart failed me. and instead of "popping the question" I had intended, some evil spirit compelled me to the utterance of—I scarcely know what. [Laughter. Go on, go on.]

Next evening, I found Mary and her father and mother together; she scarcely spoke to me: they were more than ever pleasant and talkative. For full half an hour Mary said little or nothing—I saw that she was hurt—I knew that she had a right to be—I had trifled with her feelings, acted foolishly and basely. How could I make amends?

It was getting late, when the old people rose to retire, and I was heartily glad when they turned their backs on us. Mary and I were once more alone. Neither of us spoke for ever so many long minutes. She spoke first.— Her voice sounded rather soft and melancholy. She called me Charles, but with the prefix Cousin; that word had always sounded pleasant. Now it sounded harshly on my ear. and rather goaded my heart. I could submit no longer, and rose to depart. Mary's hand was once more in mine, as I was about to say good night. All at once my courage revived—"Mary, how many days, and you will be my own dear wife?"

"In as many days, as it takes blue beans to make five," was the prompt reply.