Chapter IV: The Grave Yard (2)

It was the close of a dreary autumn day, when the withered leaves rustled before the cold chilly winds, and the dust was hurried on in eddying torrents, that there came a whispered report to the ear of Annie that Edward had returned from Boston. Her heart beat violently, and she could scarcely stand upon her feet, as she contemplated the pleasure of seeing him again, after so long an absence. Many were the cordial greetings she received from her merry companions, upon the occasion. She hurried home, eager with expectation, wondering, as she judged him by the tumultuous beatings of her own heart, he did not seek her sooner. As she passed on to her boarding place, she saw him standing at a distance, in conversation with his brother, and although his back was towards her, she mentally exclaimed,

"It is indeed my own Edward."

She made her toilet with great care, and dressed herself in such colors as were pleasing to him, arranging her hair in the way that he had so often praised. The fire diffused a cheerful glow round the comfortable apartment. Annie seated herself by the window, momentarily expecting his arrival. She took up a book and tried to read. Hour passed after hour, and still she listened in vain for his well known footsteps. The clock struck nine; the fire had gone out upon the hearth, and the autumnal gale whistled mournfully round and swayed the branches of a leafless tree that stood beneath her window.

Annie arose, extinguished her light, and again seated herself by the window, leaning her cheek upon her hand, with her elbow resting upon the window stool, she sat looking back into the silent chambers of the past.

The wan, declining moon looked coldly down upon her, as it peeped out behind

--"the broken parted clouds,
Brightening their dark brown sides."

She sat, pale and motionless, till the stars faded from the sky, and the golden king of day announced his coming, by streaking the east with his herald beams. She was accosted by her companions, with many compliments upon her looks, as they joked her upon the return of her lover, and concluded by sympathising with her in his early departure for L., the residence of his father. Little thought these careless ones how deep a wound they were inflicting upon the heart of the sensitive Annie. She never told her grief, but strove to hide her feelings in her own bosom. She could not think he had forsaken her, but often would she think it was indeed his last kiss.

About this time the owners of the factory concluded their profits did not amount to what they anticipated, and therefore, dismissed their help and shut up their factory.

The circumstances of Edward and Annie had now become generally known.

She said little, only affirming he should have all the honor there was to be had, for she had much rather have the name of being deceived, than keeping company with a man so long she did not love; but every one, of course, would express their opinion, and so the village talk went on.

Perhaps it was with less regret upon this account, that Annie prepared to leave the place, to live with an aunt that resided a few miles distant. She collected together her little stock of goods, which she had prepared for house-keeping, consisting of table linen, bedding and such like things that the careful housewife knows so well how to appreciate.

Among the many and beautiful bed quilts pieced by her industrious fingers, was one set together in what is called Job's trouble, with many a grave warning ringing in her ears, accompanied by an ominous shake of the head, and an assurance she never would marry Edward if she pieced her quilt together so. She sighed now as she unfolded it, and stood for a moment gazing upon its beauty. Then smoothly replacing the folds, and laying it in a large chest, she sighed as she said,

"Indeed, I shall never marry him."

Years had passed, and many suitors had sighed for the hand of Annie, and she had consented to become the wife of Alfred Lombard, after succeeding years should more fully obliterate the remembrance of past disappointment. He was a young man of good family, and handsome exterior, and though Annie did not love him with the ardor of a first love, still she respected his character, and admired his virtues.

His estimable mother too, had shown much affection for the fatherless Annie, and she had spent many months beneath their hospitable roof, supplying to them the place of a daughter, while they conferred upon her all the affection of parents, and looking wishfully forward to the time when their marriage should take place.

Annie was schooling her heart to forget the past; but some remembered word, or dearly loved token would awaken the old grief in her bosom, and bring the scalding tear drops to her eye lids.

It was a bright afternoon in early autumn, that Annie sat sewing by a window in the luxuriously furnished parlor of Colonel Stuart, her uncle, who was the practicing physician of the village, that she was started by a loud ringing of the door bell. Supposing it was some one after her uncle, she paid little heed till she heard her own name called, and in a moment after Edward Merton stood before her. He extended his hand, exclaiming, "My Annie." There was a marble paleness upon her cheek, and with a trembling voice she saluted him. He said as he was returning from Augusta he thought he would take that opportunity to return her letters, and take his, at the same time drawing a small package from his pocket. She took them with a trembling hand, but strove to appear calm, for she saw he was watching her with Argus eyes to fathom the secret recesses of her soul.

She entered her chamber and took from a small box, which was a gift from Edward, those dear old letters, over which she had wept so often, and which breathed tender tones of love and affection, and spoke of happy wedded days in the perspective.

But now she must part with these too. She pressed them once more to her heart, and entering the room, presented them to him. He glanced at her earnestly as he took them from her, saying as he did so,

"You do not look well, Miss Somers."

She colored slightly, and replied,

"O yes sir, I am quite well."

"I suppose," continued he, "you have heard that I was about being married."

"I have," was her brief answer.

"It is a mistake, I have no idea of it," and wishing her a hasty good afternoon he took his leave without any reference to or explanation of past events.

Annie sat like a statue after his departure, crushing the letters in her hands, gazing upon vacancy. A marble paleness overspread her face, and she felt now that her cup of misery was indeed full. She laid aside her work, and locking herself in her chamber gave vent to her feelings in a passionate flood of tears. She tried to conquer her feelings and summon her woman's pride to her aid, but it would not do. "Cruel Edward," she mentally exclaimed, "you might have spared me this, or told me the cause of this neglect and coldness." And as she reflected upon the trapping of wealth with which he was surrounded, and the splendor of his equipage, she asked herself, "can it be that love of gold is the cause?" Echo answered "can it be?"

As the weary night drew to a close, the tempest in the poor girl's bosom began to subside. But as the heaving ocean bears upon its waves plank after plank of the ship-wrecked vessel that has been stranded upon its tempest tossed bosom, so did the surging waves of memory bring back one incident after another in her past life, and picture the tender looks and the tender tones of the unfaithful Edward, during the many long years she had regarded him as her future husband. To him she had yielded up her heart's best affections. For his sake she had rejected many an advantageous offer of marriage.

She met the family in the morning with quite a composed countenance, but with a sad heart.

In the afternoon she went to her uncle's to visit her grandmother, thinking, perhaps, change of place might produce some change in her feelings. It was a delightful afternoon. The sun shed that soft subdued light so peculiar to the season, over the face of nature, which seemed rather approximating to maturity than verging to decay. The trees were robed in their deepest green, while the early ripe fruit hung temptingly upon their branches, or lay scattered upon the ground beneath. Scarce a breeze agitated the trembling leaf or cooled the fever upon her cheek. "O," thought she, as she passed along, "the howling of the wintry storms would better correspond with my feelings than this holy calm." She, in her agony, had not yet learned to bathe her restless spirit in the fountain of Jiving waters, or to listen to that voice that said, "Peace, be still," and the winds and waves obeyed; therefore she had no "shelter from the windy storm and tempest."

She was startled by hearing some one near her repeating in a low, musical voice,

"Little Hannah Pease, little Hannah Pease; old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton," and looking up, perceived near her a female, loosely wrapped in a large white woolen blanket, which was her only clothing. Her head and feet were entirely bare. Her black hair was cut short, and her weather beaten countenance retained traces of great beauty. She stood courtesying and smiling to a rock. As Annie reached her side, she muttered, "Old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton, you deceived poor Betsey Lotrop--you deceived poor Betsey Lotrop."

Annie gazed upon her with pity, saying mentally,

"A poor victim of unfaithful love; I hope the fire that is feeding upon the springs of my life may never destroy my reason," and at that moment she seemed to feel the need of seeking aid from a higher power, and for the first time the prayer for guidance and direction went up to God, in earnest supplication, and our Father, who pitieth his children and seeth the returning prodigal afar off, breathed peace into her troubled spirit, and thus commenced the first dawnings of a new and better life in the heart of this poor lonely one.

Poor Betsy stood curtesying and talking to the rock, till Annie walked some distance from her, when gathering her blanket a little more closely about her, and walking rapidly forward, soon overtook her, and looking earnestly in her face, with a low, gurgling laugh, she continued,

"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease--perhaps, if you had married him, you wouldn't been any better off. This face was a beautiful face once; it was the handsomest face that ever was seen; look at it now--how would you find it out? Old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton," and fetching another laugh, she sprang over the fence, and was soon lost from sight among the trees.

Annie soon reached her uncle's, where she met with a cordial reception, and she felt that she had learned a salutary lesson from the poor lunatic. The next afternoon, she and her cousin Edith wandered forth into an adjoining field, to enjoy a stroll beneath the cloudless sky, and inhale the sweet breath of autumn, which was borne upon the gentle gales. Nature was at rest. No stormy wind ruffled her bosom or agitated its surface. Her rich store of fruits lay spread out in great abundance, and the whitened fields stood ready for the harvest.

They conversed upon indifferent subjects till they came to a little silver stream, threading its silent way through the silken grass. They crossed and seating themselves beneath the shade of a thrifty apple tree, picked up some of the delicious fruit that lay scattered in rich profusion around them.

"O, Annie, I forgot to tell you I received a visit from Dora, yesterday; she is very unhappy on account of Charles Stanley's conduct. She did not wish to go to the ball, on account of her father's death, and he waited upon Eveline Houghton--then left for Turner without calling to see Dora."

"Indeed, I thought they were to be married this fall?"

"Such has been the report; but as she has not seen or heard from him since, she does not know how to construe his conduct towards her."

"When Orville was returning from his eastern tour, he came across Charles, in Portland, and rode with him a short distance. He sent Dora a present by him, but told him nothing of the transaction. She came to me in hopes of hearing something more definite from him."

"How does the poor girl bear it?"

"She is very unhappy, and says she is not ashamed to have people know she had been deceived; but many tell her they wouldn't mind anything about it."

"They may say so," said Annie, raising her dark eyes to Edith, while a deeper flush suffused her cheek; "but, Edith, I tell you, it will wear and wear upon the secret springs of life, till it bears its victim to the grave."

Edith gazed upon her with such an anxious, pitying expression, that she felt she had betrayed her own secret, and bending her head to hide her blushes, she picked up the mellow, golden colored fruit that lay around her, and commenced rolling them down into the stream that flowed at their feet. At that moment poor crazy Betsey Thornton came bounding over the stone wall that separated that from an adjoining enclosure, and gathering her blanket about her, stood curtesying and laughing before them, repeating as she did so,

"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease--old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton."

"Take some apples, Mrs. Thornton," said Edith, as she regarded her with a sad expression of countenance.

She took them, curtesied, and with her low, gurgling laugh, leaped over the wall, and went muttering on to rock or tree, or any other object that came in her way.

"Edith," said Annie, "what poor Blanche is that, for a poor love sick maiden, I am sure she must be? As she came with her large blanket fluttering over the wall, it reminded me of Sir Walter Scott's poor Blanche, that

"Stood hovering o'er the hollow way,
And fluttered wide her mantle gray."

Edith smiled as she replied,

"You are right--and yet you are wrong in your surmises; she is not the victim of a faithless lover, but the victim of a faithless husband."

"But," replied Annie, "a victim to man's inconstancy, at any rate?"

"Oh, yes, Annie, that is what all the poets sing."

"And with all this before you, Edith, are you not afraid to unite your destiny with Orville Somerset?"

"I sometimes fear to; but oh, if he is ever to prove untrue, may it be before we are united by the solemn covenant of marriage."

"Perhaps it would be better, but I think it will never come to you, Edith."

This conversation led to a full disclosure of Edward's conduct, and Annie unbosomed herself more fully to her cousin than she had ever done before. She sympathised with her in her feelings, saying,

"O, Annie, should Orville serve me so, I do not think I could bear it as well as you do."

Annie, smiling faintly, said,

"But the end is not yet, Edith."

The sun had finished his journey in the sky, and twilight was gathering around them, when, with arms entwined round each other, they pursued their way back, conversing upon the disappointments of life, and the misery that is produced by inconstancy and faithlessness.

"Mrs. Thornton," continued Edith, "was a beauty, as you may even now perceive by its traces upon her weather beaten countenance, and her position in society was far above Mr. Thornton; but won by his addresses, she consented to become his wife. They came to this country, among strangers, to an humble home, where she suffered many privations, which she bore with woman's fortitude. But when her husband became an inebriate, and treated her with moroseness and brutality, reason forsook its throne, and she became a maniac. Hannah Pease was an intimate friend of hers, who seems to be ever in her mind, perhaps because she used her influence to prevent the unhappy union."

"O," said Annie, "when I reflect upon the misery that sometimes exists in the married state, I almost feel it is well to be situated as I am now, as to be united, even to Edward. But then, the cruel disappointment rankles deep."

"And how many men," said Edith, "make the indifference, the ill temper, or the untidiness of a wife an excuse for their intemperance, tavern-haunting, and all their neglect of home. But it does seem to me that it devolves as much upon a man, to contribute to home happiness as upon a woman. But many men of my acquaintance seem ever to cast a shadow upon the sunlight of home, and their wives and children shrink from their presence. Is this the wife's fault?"

"I think not. If so, I think the stronger yield very readily to the weaker, and certainly should receive our sympathy."

"But, Annie, how much there is in this little world of ours, that is mysterious and beyond our comprehension, and nothing so much so as the want of union in the marriage relation. For there the greatest fondness is often turned to the greatest inattention. But, oh, may Heaven save me from such a lot!"

By this time the cousins reached the house, and soon retiring to rest, Edith was wandering in the land of dreams, while Annie lay busied in thought, counting the hours of night, and seeking to look "beyond the narrow bounds of time, and fix her hopes of happiness on heaven."

The rougher blasts of autumn blew more fiercely round, and the dry and withered leaves fell from the trees, and drifted along before the chilly winds, while the black passing clouds cast a deep shadow over the face of decaying nature. Everything bespeaking the return of dreary, desolating winter.

Annie had faded with the leaves of autumn--she had heard of Edward's union with a young lady of great wealth and beauty soon after his visit to her, and she felt grieved, when she reflected upon the unmanly manner in which he had conducted towards her. She had conversed freely with Alfred, and laying all the circumstances of the case before him, told him she should respect him while she lived, but was fully sensible her blighted heart never could know another earthly love.

"And while the lamp of life continues to burn," she added, "I wish to direct my thoughts to Heaven, and prepare for that change that is before me. Death, Alfred, will soon claim me for his bride; he, at least, will not prove recreant to his trust."

Alfred kissed her pale cheek, and looked tenderly upon her, feeling that her presages were indeed too true.

She was soon removed to the home of her mother, whose heart yearned towards her dying child with the affection of a true mother. As Annie's health declined rapidly, and the things of earth became more dim and shadowy, the heavenly became more distinct and glorious.

"O, Ellen," she would say, "how precious at such a time as this, is the presence of the Saviour, who condescends to minister to us in our necessities. O, Ellen, do seek an interest in his dying love. You will be the only remaining one, soon. Father, Matilda, and Willie have long since passed from earth, and soon--very soon, I must join them in the spirit land. Oh, mother, do try by repentance and faith, to meet us there, so that we may be a united family in heaven, though we have been divided upon earth. As I now stand upon the brink of the grave, looking back upon life, and forward to the future life, I feel like the shipwrecked mariner, who has entered the haven of peace, after the winds and the storms have subsided, and the tumultuous tossings of the waves have ceased. For, oh, this poor heart has been wrung by disappointments, but I see now it was all for the best; my Heavenly Father would have all my heart, and so he, in his infinite wisdom, separated me from my idol, and now my affections, separated from earthly love, are fixed upon him, he is my rock, and my stay. No earthly friend could go with me 'through the valley and shadow of death,' but Christ can go with me, and open wide the gates of heaven, and usher my willing spirit into the presence of the happy throng that worship before the throne of God."

It was a dreary day in mid-winter. The wind howled in fitful gusts, and the falling snow was piled in huge drifts before it. Annie, pale and laboring for breath, was bolstered up, in bed, for the angel of death was visiting the poor girl. His icy fingers were upon her fluttering pulses, and the feeble current of life stood still.

"O," said she, "the winds, in their wild fury, seem singing praises to God. My heart is so attuned to praise, that all things seem to unite in the universal hymn of thanksgiving to our Saviour and our God. O, Ellen, is there no music in those words, to your young heart? And, mother, does it not come to you, in your declining age, and bid your wearied spirit seek that rest that remains for the people of God?"

She ceased to speak: the breath became shorter and shorter, till it only came with convulsive gasps. She once again opened her weary eyes, looked earnestly upon the face of her mother and her sister, then glancing round the apartment, seemed as though she were bidding a last adieu to all it contained--then closing them forever upon earthly things, without a struggle or a groan, the spirit of Annie Somers passed gently away.

The storm continued its violence, and desolate indeed, was the cottage home of the mother and the sister, where lay the lifeless form of Annie, reposing in the long deep sleep of death.

It was Sabbath day--a stormy Sabbath day, when the coffin of Annie was borne upon the shoulders of four men to its last resting place.

It was covered with a neat black velvet pall, at each corner of which hung suspended a heavy black silk tassel, which waved in the wind as it came careering on, in fitful gusts, one blast scattering a shower of snow upon the velvet pall, and the next, sweeping it away, and so they laid her in her grave, amid the howling of the wintry storm; but it disturbed not her repose.

Willie and Matilda sleep upon the banks of the Sandy river. The father's grave was made upon the banks of the far off Mississippi, and Annie rests by the side of the winding Androscoggin; her mother, too, is by her side; for she soon followed to the land of shadows.

Ellen has entered upon the responsible duties of wife and mother, and is acting well her part in the drama of life. Her usually volatile spirit is chastened and subdued by the sorrows that have passed over it, and it is her earnest endeavor so to live, as to meet the approbation of God, and her own conscience and train her dear children for that better life that is promised to the pure in heart.

Were I weaving a tale of fiction, the reason of Edward's conduct would be required to complete the work; but it has been said

"Truth is stranger than fiction,"

and Annie died without ever receiving any explanation. Thus we will leave them, with the assurance that they shall again be united, although their remains are now so widely separated.

Lines, Written during Convalescence from Brain Fever

Sing on, sweet bird, thy gentle strain
"Can't cool my brow, or cool my brain;"
But yet, thou hast a magic pow'r
To lull me in a fev'rish hour;
Thy pleasant notes, so sweet and clear,
Come soft and mellow'd to my ear.
And when my head is rack'd with pain,
Burning my brow, throbbing my brain,--
When all's tumultuous, toss'd, and wild,
And frantic as a wayward child;
Roaring as if old ocean's waves
Were bursting from their coral caves;
Tossing as if old ocean's foam
Were rocking to its highest home;
Moaning as if the sea bird's wail
Were screaming o'er the tattered sail;
And ev'ry ship were tempest toss'd,--
Its rudder gone,--its pilot lost;
And no kind ray of light were giv'n,
To cheer them, from the vault of heav'n,
Save the vivid lightning's flash,--
Pealing the deep ton'd thunder crash,
Glancing upon the tow'ring wave,
Above the seaman's yawning grave;--
Glaring into that dark abyss,
Where hideous monsters dart and hiss,
And ship wreck'd seamen, far from home.
Toss amid the briny foam;
Till the proud wave, with one stern sweep,
Buries the secrets of the deep;
Revealing far, on upper land,
A lawless bandits' wand'ring band,
With sword and rapier, stain'd with blood,
Still thirsting for the crimson flood;
They show no mercy on their kind,
But kill or plunder all they find.
Then dies the flash, as ocean's moan
Sends back a low, sepulchral groan,
Leaving all nature dark and still,
As midnight sleeping on the hill,
While all around unearthly seems,
As frightened Hecate's spectral dreams;
Till bubbling, gushing through each vein,
The frenzied current turns again,--
My hurrying pulses faster play,
And conjure up the dread array,--
Glaring spectres, side by side,
In mould'ring shrouds around me glide;
Death's damp wreaths are round their hair,
And coffin worms hold revel there.
Gibb'ring, they come from ancient tombs,
Stealing from low sepulchral glooms,
From vault and charnel house they rise,
With bloodless cheek, and hollow eyes,
They point the finger,--shake the head,
And hold strange converse round my bed;
Together there, in council meet,
With coffin, pall and winding sheet,--
Seem waiting, with their dread array,
To bear my lifeless form away.
They stand with mattock, and with spade,--
On me their icy hands are laid,
While noisome vapors round me spread,
Bespeak the precincts of the dead.
E'en then, sweet bird, at such an hour,
When reason almost resigns her power;
Thy pleasant notes have magic art,
To soothe my palpitating heart;
They come as wild, as free, as clear,
As though no pain or woe were near.

'Tis true, that friendship's hand is kind,
My aching brow and heart to bind;
Beside my bed a husband stands,
And anxious children press my hands;
A gentle mother acts her part,
And sisters, with each winning art;
Father and brothers waiting still,
The slightest mandate of my will;
Each anxious, who shall earliest prove,
The tender gushings of their love.

Sometimes there comes a vision fair,
Of waving groves, and balmy air,
Of placid skies, serene and mild,
As slumber stealing o'er a child;
Where breezes hushed to deep repose,
Sleep in the bosom of the rose,
And scarcely lift their fragile wing,
One dew-drop from the flower to fling;
But leave it for the sun's warm ray,
To kiss the pearly tear away.
Pleasant sounds the gushing rill,
That bubbles down the verdant hill,
Murmuring along ifs native glen,
Far from the fev'rish haunts of men,--
Till kissing soft its pebbly shore,
It dies, nor ever murmurs more.
And fairy forms around me dance,--
Now they retreat, and now advance;
Bright wreaths around their heads they wear,
And lutes in their fair hands they bear,
Each warbling forth, in cadence low,
Their pleasant number, as they go,
And music floats high in mid air,
As bands of angels hover'd there;
Four massive chains of purest gold,
A chrystal island seem to hold,
Gently waving it in air,
As angel spirits lingered there.
Like ocean, in a summer day,
When gentlest zephyrs with him play.--
Just curl the ripples on his breast,
Then sighing, sink with him to rest.
Beside the streams are pleasant bowers
Adorned with ever-greens and flowers,
Where insects float with gayest wing,
And birds with sweetest voices sing,
And happy spirits, free from care,
Pluck the wild flowers that blossom there;
Their forms are beauteous to behold,
White silken wings, spangled with gold,
Help them with easy grace to rise
From this fair world to yonder skies.
They come and go at even tide,
And sometimes on the sunbeams ride;
And when they wish for railroad cars.
They ride upon the shooting stars:
Firmly unite them in a train,
And skim along the aerial plain;
No locomotive do they need,
For their own will propels their speed.
The Aeolian harp, with plaintive wail,
Sighs responsive to each gale;
Its chords are strung 'mid branching trees,
And echo to ev'ry passing breeze;
Gently they vibrate through the grove,
Touching the chords of life and love,
Mixed with the sounds that round me float.
I hear, sweet bird, thy mellow note;
For as in sunshine, as in rain,
Thou comest to cheer me with thy strain.
Few friends so kind to come each day,
To sing the tedious hours away.

But pleasant visions vanish soon,
And the bright sun grows dim at noon.
The pleasant gales forget to play,
And dark and fearful grows the day.
The waving island takes its flight,
Far from the stretch of human sight;
High in 'mid air it seems to rise,
Dissolving, mixing with the skies.
But ah, it leaves no vacant place,
For grisly phantoms take its place.
Thus ever varying all things seem
"Fickle as a changeful dream;"
And naught is left of that gay train,
My gentle bird, but thy sweet strain.
O who can tell in hours of ease,
Of fancies wild, and strange as these?
When health gushes through each vein,
Who paint the fever of the brain?
Who picture half the grief and pain
That follows pale sickness in her train?
With bitterest dregs she fills her cup,
And makes her victims drink them up:
Binds them to thorny pillows down,
And frightens sleep with her stern frown;
Or if perchance the eyelids close,
She gives her victim no repose,
But hurries round and madly screams,
And conjures up her wildest dreams,
Binds reason in her iron chains,
To fancy gives her longest reins,
And whips and spurs it, through the brain,
Till startling nature wakes again.
She flings the rose from beauty's cheek,
And on it paints her hectic streak;
Takes rosy childhood from his play,
And gives grim death the beauteous prey;
For ever round her footsteps steal
To pick for him his glutton meal;
And still she keeps her promise good.

To pamper him with hourly food;
But yet they stand there, side by side,
Death and the grave, unsatisfied.
For should a million hourly die,
Twould not their appetites supply.
But what seem curses to our eyes
Are nought but blessings in disguise;
And sickness is in mercy given
To wean the soul from earth to heaven;
For were all bright and joyous here.
Who would think on yon, bright sphere?
But pleasure pinioned to this sod,
Our thoughts would never rise to God.
And death's the passage to the skies,
Through which our ransom'd souls must rise,
To yonder blissful, bright abode,
Where dwells our Father and our God.
But now, sweet bird, I miss thy tone,
And feel at least one pleasure gone;
A prowling cat, foe to thy kind,
Thus wrought the evil she designed.
Thy life and songs forever o'er,
Thou wilt charm my ear no more.
Thus in life's uncertain day,
The singing birds oft snatch'd away:
And they who linger long in pain
Suffered to linger and remain.
But God is just in his decrees,
And wisely orders things like these.

The Angel Cousin.

Our little Mary was dying. The film had gathered over those deep blue orbs, and her emaciated form lay white as polished marble stretched out on her little cradle, around which were gathered sympathizing friends, watching the feeble lamp of life as it burned flickering in its socket. The grandmother and aunt had been summoned from an adjoining village, where they had gone upon a visit the previous morning; and Emma, a sweet cousin not two years old, stood wondering why little Mary did not smile upon her, as she usually did, for she had never looked upon death.

Mary had ever been a fragile child. But her mother had clung to her with all the devotion of a mother's love. Anxiously did she watch that little pale form, pressing it to her heart, and gazing upon it with fond maternal pride, day by day, and night after night, unmindful of food or sleep, so that she might relieve the suffering of her precious babe; and ever would she say it will soon be better. One week succeeded another, and still there was no change for the better. But oh, how deep was the fountain of that mother's love, and the feeble wailing of that dear infant moved all its secret springs.

A physician was consulted, who spoke hopefully, but nothing seemed to help her.

Through the summer months, the salubrity of the air revived her some, and the mother would wander with her round the garden, placing the sweetest flowers in her hand, or sitting beneath the shade of trees, she would listen for hours to the murmur of the summer breeze that sighed among the branches, or the humming of the bee as it sipped the sweets from surrounding flowers, delighted that her darling Mary might thus inhale the pure breath of heaven. And when those large, soul lit orbs were closed in sweet slumber, and the little fragile form could rest for a short time, the mother would lift her heart to God in gratitude and thanksgiving.

Summer passed with its weary watching, and her disease assumed a more deffinite appearance, and the mother felt that Mary must die.

'Twas early autumn; the mother purchased some flannel and prepared a robe for her darling, with a mother's pride, believing that that would be beneficial to her. It was late in the evening when the task was completed, and a neat white apron was hung upon the nail over it, and the impatient mother waited the approach of day that she might place it upon her little form. O how strongly did the bright red robe contrast with the lily whiteness of that lovely babe. The tiny hands, as they peeped from beneath their long sleeves, looked like two white lilies intermingled with the thick clustering blossoms of the running rose. The mother looked upon her with pleasure as she saw her so comfortably clad, and hoped the increased warmth would improve her health, but when she bore her to her father, saying, "here is our doll;" he turned away his dewy eyes, for he saw that she was fading away from earth.

"O Albert," said Carrie, "does she not look now as though she might live?"

He could not bear to crush the last hope in the heart of his young wife, and remained silent.

She continued,

"No one gives me any encouragement, but I do feel more hopeful about her this morning, for she rested better through the night than she has done for several nights."

While she was yet speaking, a piercing shriek broke from the lips of the child, every feature expressed extreme agony, and the last ray of hope in the heart of that young mother went out forever.

From that time, her precious one failed fast. Vomiting succeeded, and the little fountain of strength was ebbing fast away. Little did the poor mother think, when she arrayed her little infant in her comfortable flannel robe, it would be the last time she would be dressed till she was wrapped in her shroud for the silent grave.

During the night her feeble frame was attacked by severe spasms, and shriek after shriek filled the heart of the mother with unutterable anguish. When that subsided she lay cold and pulseless, with the damp dews of death upon her marble forehead. Little hope was entertained of her surviving till morning. But the grim messenger delayed his work, and morning again awoke all nature to life and beauty.

It was a cool day, and the running rose bush that clambered over the door, was laden with withered flowers that had lived their little day and faded before the early autumn winds. Many a hardier flower was blooming brightly, and lifting their heads seemingly in proud defiance of the chilling winds that were blowing round them. One little bud enveloped in its casing of green that hung waving over the door, was perishing in its beauty, even like the little cradled innocent, that even then was passing away before the icy breath of the dark plumed angel. A hasty despatch was sent for the maternal grandmother and aunt, and the grandmother upon the father's side was present, and together we watched the failing breath of the dying child. Six brief months only had she lingered upon earth, and now she was to depart forever. Many, as they sat in that chamber of death, felt how mysterious are the Providences of God. The dried and the withered leaf, the full blown flower, and the opening bud were there, and all were spared, while the youngest one of the group was passing away and teaching the one great lesson, "All flesh is grass, and the goodliness thereof as the flower of the field."

Little Emma stood gazing upon her with an expression of wonder, and when told little Mary would soon be an angel, she raised her blue eyes and smilingly said, "O Emma will have an angel cousin;" thus teaching a lesson of faith and trust.

When the shadows of evening gathered around us, the doctor came in and was surprised to find her still living. As she had not swallowed during the day, he was surprised upon applying a sponge wet in water to her lips to find that she swallowed rather eagerly and without any difficulty until she had taken several drops. He told the mother she had better prepare some warm milk and water, and drop a little of it into her mouth as long as she continued to swallow. Hope sprung up in her heart, perhaps she might yet live, and quick as lightning the recollection of many children who had been snatched from the very jaws of death, passed through her memory. But while she was making the preparation, the little bosom heaved one gentle sigh, and we felt that Mary was an angel. One glance, one wild scream, and the mother fell almost fainting into the arms of her husband.

The crimson robe that was placed upon her with so many hopes by the fond hands of a mother, was removed by other hands, and the little body was prepared for the tomb. The mother gazed upon her with tearful eyes and an aching heart.

It was a mild, peaceful Sabbath day when they bore her to the tomb. The mother placed a robe of white flannel upon her, imprinting as she did so, many kisses on the lily arms she had kissed so many times in all their warmth of living loveliness, when, with a smile upon her lips, and gladness in her eye, she raised them to her mother's lips to receive the proffered tokens of affection.

And so they placed her in her coffin, with a tiny rosebud in either hand (for she would ever hold flowers longer than any thing else), to wither in their beauty with her, the pale perishing one. And the holy man read from the word of God the impressive lesson, "Behold thou hast made my days as a hand's breadth, and my age is as nothing before thee;" and offered up fervent prayer in behalf of the afflicted mourners, and little Mary was borne to the silent tomb.

O, who that listened to that gentle autumn breeze that so softly sighed among the trees, and fanned the flower that bent slightly before it, but must feel that there is a God that orders the winds and the sea, and rules over the destinies of men.

Sad were the hearts of the stricken parents as they returned to their little cottage, where everything reminded them of their dear lost child.

Emma stood beside the vacant cradle, and asked many questions about the departed cousin.

"Why did they take her from her cradle and put her in that little box?" But was ever comforted by calling her her angel cousin.

But time passed on, and other changes came. They left their cottage home where this great grief had rested upon them. Another darling Mary was given them, and found a warm place in their affections. The husband soon left his wife and child, and sought to build up his fortune in a distant land, while the wife and mother dedicates her time to the care of the dearly loved treasure her heavenly Father has committed to her trust.

One brief year sped rapidly away, and winter again returned with his winds. It was a wild night, the wintry winds howled fiercely round the dwelling, and pelted the snow and sleet furiously against the casement, when Mrs. Barlow, after attending to those duties that make a New England home so comfortable, dropped her crimson curtains, and seating herself by a comfortable coal fire, commenced preparing her little Emma for bed.

"Oh," said she, "how the wind blows, mamma; what do poor little children do that have no home?"

Said her mother, "God tempers the wind, my dear, to the shorn lamb."

"Mamma, do you know I am going to have a party and go to heaven and invite my angel cousin?"

"Are you, indeed."

"But mamma, it is time to say our Father now," and the happy mother listened to her dear child as she clasped her hands and lisped the Lord's prayer, and the appropriate "now I lay me," after which she soon dropped into a peaceful slumber.

Thus evening was spent after evening with the mother and her dear child, happy in each other's love.

Winter passed, and genial spring came forth in infantile beauty, unbending the streamlets from their icy fetters, and swelling the buds upon the trees, thus making her early preparation for future beauty and usefulness.

Emma awoke early one Sabbath morning, and leaving her little crib, nestled down beside her mother. After laying quiet some time, she asked suddenly,

"Is it Sunday, mamma?"

Being answered in the affirmative, she said,

"It would be a beautiful day to die. Less die to-day, papa, mamma, and Emma, and go to heaven, and get our golden harps; you have a great one, you and papa, and Emma will have a little one like my little angel cousin."

A shade of sadness passed over the mother's face, but rested not upon it. The form of her darling child was in her arms, her downy cheek resting against her own, and the bright blue eyes gazing earnestly into hers with a volume of meaning in their azure depths.

"But you must get up now, for it is a beautiful Sabbath day, and we shall go to meeting to-day, and the minister will pray for us to God. O how glad I am," and the dear child clapped her dimpled hands with delight.

And so they went to church Sabbath after Sabbath, while Emma ever seemed to enjoy the services, often making observations upon what she heard. She inquired every day if it were Sunday; and Saturday evenings her play things were all carefully laid aside, and she expressed great sympathy for poor little children that played upon that day.

The story of the cross would affect her to tears, and yet she loved to dwell upon it, and it was with great effort her attention could be withdrawn from it.

One rosy twilight hour, when the departed beams of the sun still lingered, tinging the curtains of the west with those bright and gorgeous hues that so frequently surround him at his setting. Emma and her mother sat down to spend that happy hour together, and gaze upon the scene.

Spring was rapidly advancing, and the face of nature was lovely to the eye. The half open buds upon the trees shed sweet perfume, and birds carolled their evening songs on every spray.

But the things of earth, beautiful though they were, could not satisfy the mind of the child, and when the golden stars spangled the blue canopy above, she talked of golden harps, of her angel cousin, and the mysteries of that unseen world,

"Beyond planets, suns, and adamantine spheres."

Suddenly assuming a more thoughtful expression, she said,

"O mamma, what would you do if Emma should die? You would have to carry away my crib and little chair, and put all my play things away, and you would have no little Emma. O mamma, how lonesome you would be;" and bursting into a convulsive fit of sobbing she flung her arms around her mother's neck and wept upon her bosom. Tears too, dimmed the mother's eyes as she pressed her fondly to her heart, and kissed away her tears, while a painful thought went through her heart, "can it be her conversation is prophetic?"

She soothed her troubled spirit, spoke of the joys of heaven, and after listening to her childish prayer, laid her in her little crib with a sweet good night murmured in her ear. Returning to her sitting room, long and sadly she reflected upon the words of her darling child, and tried to fathom their import, and earnestly did she pray that night, "Our Father, prepare me for whatsoever thou art preparing for me, and enable me ever to say, 'thy will be done;'" and she retired to rest with a subdued spirit, feeling an indefinable presentiment of coming sorrow.

The glad light of morning in a measure dissipated the shadows of the previous evening, and the mother and daughter met with a pleasant greeting,--the little girl busied about her play, while her mother attended to her domestic duties. They frequently interchanged cheerful words. Emma would sometimes personate a house-maid, and assist her mother in dusting and arranging the furniture. But suddenly dropping all, she stood by her side, and looking earnestly up into her face, said,

"O mamma, you may have all my clothes next summer."

"Why, Emma," replied her mother, "you will want them yourself."

"O no, mamma, I shall not want them; you may have my little brella, and all."

The mother's cheek blanched, and a fearful pang again shot through her heart.

"O Emma, don't talk so, you will wear them all yourself."

"O no, mamma, you may have them;" and seating herself in her little chair, she sat long, looking thoughtful and serious.

It was morning, bright beautiful morning. The swelling buds had burst their confines, and the apple, pear, peach, cherry, and plum trees that surrounded the house, were thickly covered with sweet scented, many colored blossoms, that gave promise of a rich harvest of delicious fruit. The birds warbled their matin songs in sweet melody; the honey bees with drowsy hum, were sipping sweets to horde their winter's store; and every thing seemed rejoicing in the light of that glad morning. Even Crib, the great house dog, lay sunning himself on the door step with a satisfied look, snapping at the flies that buzzed around him.

But Emma could not arise to look out upon the joyful face of nature. She lay pale and languid upon the bed, telling her mother she was too sick to get up, that she could stay alone while she ironed her clothes which she had starched the night before: but wished her to shut the door to keep out the light and noise.

The mother pursued her task with a sad heart, but often would she unclose the door and look in upon the pale child, and show her some article of dress she had been preparing for her. She would look up with a smile and say,

"O good mamma, how nice they look;" then closing her eyes drop into a deep, heavy sleep.

She grew rapidly worse, and the doctor who was called to visit her, pronounced it scarlet fever, that fearful malady among children, but thought her symptoms favorable.

Every attention was bestowed upon her that affection could give; but the disease rapidly increased.

The fire of a terrible fever was raging in her veins, and drying up the fountain of her young life. In the wildness of delirium she would start suddenly from the arms of her mother, and pierce her heart by begging to be carried to her own dear mother.

The fifth day of her disease it assumed a more alarming appearance, her extremities becoming cold, and a deathlike palor overspreading her countenance, accompanied by a stupid, dozing state. While laying thus, she started up, exclaiming,

"Mamma, if I die, shall I go heaven?"

"O, yes, my dear," said her mother.

"Papa said. I should."

Then falling into a deep stupor, she noticed nothing for about two hours, when looking up bright and wishfully, turning her body towards her mother, she said, earnestly,

"Pray."

Her mother commenced the sweet prayer, so familiar to her,

"Now, I lay me."

She joined her trembling voice with hers, and lisped again the words she had loved so well. She appeared exhausted with the effort, and turning away her little head, and closing her weary eyes, lay apparently asleep about five minutes, when arousing herself, with a sweet expression of countenance, she gently murmured,

"Amen."

"O," said the mother, "perhaps that is Emma's last prayer."

"It may be," said the grandmother; "and how vividly we should remember it, if it should be."

Even so--that was the last note of praise that fell from those infant lips upon earth. But often does it start upon memory's ear, during the silence of the midnight hour, and seem like gentle whisperings from the spirit land, and bring back recollections at once painful and pleasant to the soul.

She slept till the twilight hour, when she wished her mother to carry her to the window. Oh, happily were those hours usually spent, when the duties of the day had all been performed, and the quiet shades of evening gathered round their dwelling. Often was their talk of heaven. O, they were happy hours! but they flew by upon golden wings, leaving their deep impress on that fond mother's heart.

As she sat with her that evening, looking upon the varied prospect that was spread out before them, no word passed her lips. Her mother pointed to the green grass, the trees covered with clustering blossoms, the river, hurrying on to join old Ocean, reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun on its placid surface; and to the busy hum of life, as people hurried to and fro in the village that lay distinctly spread out before them; but nothing could elicit a word from her, till turning her head wearily, and closing her eyes for the last time upon the beautiful world, with its deep blue sky, and its rich sunset dyes, she said,

"O, mamma, lay me in my little bed;" and after noticing apparently every object in the room, she closed her eyes and lay in a deep stupor for four successive days and nights. Her face was pale as marble, and incoherent words escaped her lips. Sometimes she would murmur,

"Oh, carry me home--carry me home." When she revived from the stupor, at times it was agonizing to witness her suffering. But no word escaped her lips.

Everything that medical aid could do was done, and every attention was paid to the suffering child by her parents and friends, and every effort used to stay the disease. But "he who seeth not as man seeth," willed it otherwise, and all proved unavailing. On the fifteenth day the rash came on again; the throat swelled badly, and the sufferings of the dear little one were extreme. Even then, it was evident she knew her friends, and many were the tokens of affection bestowed upon them as they watched beside her couch, and ministered to her necessities.

Often would she reach up her little emaciated hands, and placing them upon her mother's cheeks, press them tenderly. It seemed to soothe her, when her mother would lay her head upon her pillow beside her, and take her little wasted hand in hers. And when she sang to her, in a low, trembling voice, her little favorite hymn,

"There is a happy land, far; far away,"

she lay quiet, and seemed listening with much attention, raising one little hand three times, then laying it fondly round her mother's neck. Long, during that day, did the grief-stricken mother breathe sad, melancholy music into the ears of her dying child.

Towards evening that restless state, so common in cholera infantum, came on, accompanied at every breath by a groan, which the doctor said must soon wear her out.