Chapter XIII: A Word About N. P. Willis

Of the command, "Honor thy father and mother," says the Boston Transcript, _Ruth Hall_ has been a significant reminder, to those who know the excellent man vilified in that novel as the heroine's father, and admitted in many ways to be intended by "Fanny Fern" as a picture of her own father, Mr. Willis. How differently he is looked upon by his other children it is a relief to humanity to know, and we are glad to be able to copy from the "Youth's Companion," the paper which Mr. Willis publishes in his declining years, the following lines addressed to him by his son, N. P. Willis, the brother of "Fanny Fern."

TO MY AGED FATHER.

[ON HEARING OF HIS RECENT CALAMITY, IN HAVING HIS OFFICE
DESTROYED BY THE LATE FIRE IN SCHOOL-STREET.]

BY N. P. WILLIS.

Cares thicken round thee as thy steps grow slow,
Father beloved!--not turn'd upon, as once,
And battled back with steadfastness unmov'd--
(That battle without fame or trump to cheer--
That hardest battle of the world--_with care_--
Thy life one patient victory till now!)
Faint has thy heart become. For peace thou prayest--
For less to suffer as thy strength grows less.
For, oh, when life has been a stormy wild--
The bitter night too long, the way too far--
The aged pilgrim, ere he lays him down,
Prays for a moment's lulling of the blast--
A little time, to wind his cloak about him,
And smooth his gray hairs decently to die.

Yet, oh, not vain the victories unsung!
Not vain a life of industry to bless.
And thou, in angel-history--where shine
The _silent self-forgetful who toil on_
_For others until death_--art nam'd in gold
In heaven it is known, thou hast done well!
But, not all unacknowledg'd is it, here.
Children thou hast, who, for free nurture, given
With one hand, while the other fought thy cares,
Grow grateful as their own hands try the fight.
And more--they thank thee more! The name thou leavest
Spotless and blameless as it comes from thee--
For this--their pure inheritance--a life
Of unstained honor gone before our own--
The father that we love an "honest man"--
For this, thy children bless thee.
Cheer thee, then!--
Though hopelessly thy strength may seem to fail,
And pitilessly far thy cares pursue!
What though the clouds follow to eventide,
Which chased thy morn and noon across the sky!
From these thy trying hours--the hours when strength,
Most sorely press'd, has won its victories--
From _life's dark trial clouds_, that follow on,
Even to sunset--glory comes at last!
Clouds are the glory of the dying day--
A glory that, though welcoming to Heaven,
Illumes the parting hour ere day is gone.