CONSOLATION.
“It’s lonesome withouthim!”
You may have noticed those high walls which some build about their houses and grounds, so high you can get but a glimpse of the tree-tops above them; the shady walks, and gushing fountains, and green grass-plats, and bright flowers are entirely hidden from view.
A certain great man died, and the tidings was carried swiftly and far, for his name was known to many nations. All over the land there were public demonstrations of mourning, and numberless and eloquent were the eulogies pronounced. Thus he who, living, had been laden with honors and distinctions, went in pomp and honor to his burial. Yet somehow we do not hear that any one was really very sorry because of his death, much less that any little children wept because of it. Had his greatness been like a high wall, concealing whatever was sunny and winsome in his nature? On the same hillside where that great man was laid to rest there is a new-made grave beneath the cedars, and not very many people know anything aboutit; but among those who do there is a void, as when the fire goes out upon the hearth-stone, and all is cold and desolate. “It is no small thing to be missed by one’s friends when he is away from them.” Little did he consider, who spoke thus, how truly those words would soon apply to himself. And here one might pause to ponder. Which is preferable—to be so great and renowned that when one dies the news will be told abroad in the world, or to be so genial and lovable that even a little child will weep at the sight of his vacant chair?
When we are sleeping in our graves so still,When we are sleeping in our graves so low,Ah, who will care to know?Ah, who will?
When we are sleeping in our graves so still,When we are sleeping in our graves so low,Ah, who will care to know?Ah, who will?
When we are sleeping in our graves so still,When we are sleeping in our graves so low,Ah, who will care to know?Ah, who will?
When we are sleeping in our graves so still,
When we are sleeping in our graves so low,
Ah, who will care to know?
Ah, who will?
A wee bird made its nest out in the porch last May, and lived there the summer long. But the summer is gone, and the winter is come again, and the bird has flown away, and the nest is empty, and the snow is on it and on the ground, and the clouds are gray and threatening, and again the wind wails at the casements, moans down the chimney. Lem, coming in to replenish the fire, sees the form shivering over it in spite of the warmth, sees the wide, tearless eyes, with the new, strange look in them, sees the carpet strewn with remnants of a rare and fragrant bouquet, Harry’s gift, torn to bits by nervous fingers.
“Miss Katy,” and he lays his hand gently on her head, “try to think of something else; jess try. Think of all the poor folks you an’ Mr. Harry’s got on the dockit, an’ what’ll become of ’em if you don’t pick up sperrits an’ help ’im look after ’em a little. Come, they’s no time to be settin’ here idle!” You would hardly guess his voice was choking, and that tears were streaming down his black face.
“Oh, Lem,” she answers drearily, “I’m tired; I’m tired of living. I can’t care for anything any more.”
“But youmustcare, honey. What’ll become of poor old ’Liza an’ me if Katy goes off an’ leaves us too?”
But she only hovers more closely over the fire, staring at it vacantly. And the wind moans and wails down the chimney.
Lem returns to the kitchen to consult with his wife, Eliza, as to what shall be done for her in whose welfare they have felt such a tender interest since, years ago, she and her brother were left orphans. Not all the heartfelt sympathy of young and old, and the loving little attentions of the children, seem to be of any avail. Eliza advises to go for Edith. “She used to ’muse Master Wallie.”
But once in the room, her toys about her, Edith soon ceases to play. There is a change. Somebody is gone who used to be here. She may somewhat have forgottenall that has been passing of late, scarcely can have understood what has been told her; but whether she thinks about it or not, or remembers, even, she feels a want. “It’s lonesome withouthim!” Ah, that is it; and she begins to sob, creeping close to Kate. But what new thing is this? Katy doesn’t notice her! Those queer, staring eyes, that do not turn and smile upon her, they are not Katy’s eyes. That white, stony face, that is not like Katy, either. And all the while the wind is moaning and wailing, and the gloomy clouds grow gloomier, making the day dreary and the room dreary. Everything is dreary and lonesome, and not as it used to be. She flies into the hall, crying and calling to Lem, below.
“Take me home! I’m afraid! Katy isn’t Katy any more!”
“Oh, come back, Edie!” calls Kate, arousing at that pitiful little cry and holding out her hands to the child. “Don’t go away and leave Katy all alone! She’ll be good now. She’s sorry she scared Edie; she didn’t mean to.”
“Areyou all alone?” Edith has stopped crying suddenly. There is a peculiar earnestness in her look as she questions.
“Yes, Edie, all alone! all alone!” and the answer ends almost in a wail.
“Then it’s there—there, behind the book—the paper that he did write on. I must give it to you when you was all alone, he said—my captain. He said, would I ’member? Ha, ha! Idid’member, didn’t I?”
Kate opens the book-case, and finds, as the child said, a folded paper behind one of the encyclopædias. It contains some lines written with pencil, so running together, lines and words, as to be almost unreadable. As she recognizes that handwriting and slowly deciphers it, the tears come at last like rain. Edith, no longer afraid, wipes them away with her little white apron, murmuring, the while, all sorts of baby talk.
About two hundred years ago there lived a blind man who was the author of what many think to be the greatest of poems. But wherever that wonderful work is read and admired, there, too, it is told how his daughters, with one exception, were unkind to him and undutiful, refusing even the task of committing to paper those immortal verses. However, it may be he was a trifle to blame, himself. (For we have seen, as in that other case, how greatness does sometimes build for itself a barrier, a high, impassable wall.) Suppose day after day little eyes looked up wistfully, and he did not see—gazing far off into other worlds and other ages; little voices whispered timidly, and he did not hear—listening to the converse of angels; little hands clungcaressingly, but unheeded. Ah, that was asking for bread and getting a stone. Suppose it made some little hearts ache, some little people were “afraid,” finally, like Edith, awhile since. So when they grew up and he grew old and sightless, what came of it all?Paradise Lost, to be marveled at as long as the English language is known and studied, and there in shadowy background, the mighty genius, poor and blind, with his unloving daughters.
And now, girl readers, here is that writing which to her, so sorrowful, is like a consoling message from the Beyond.
FOR MY SWEET SAINT CATHERINE.There was once a blind, crippled, helpless hulk of humanity who had a sister. And such a sister! All the women who ever wrote books, or painted pictures, or spoke or sang to gaping crowds, weren’t worth her little finger. At least, so he thought—this selfish fellow—and with good reason. For he owed it to her that life was not a burden; rather, he owed it to her that life was a pleasure. Ah, what could she have done that she did not do for him? Like a good fairy she hovered about him, studying and scheming for his comfort and diversion from morning till night. Would he be read to? She would read to him by the hour. Did some rhyme or foolish fancy escape him? She was only too eager to preserve it. She was eyes for him, she was his good right hand, she was everything! Ah, how unmindful of self, how thoughtful of him always! even striving to forget some sorrows of her own, lest her sadness might make him sad! And now that he is gone, and she has nothing to regret—not one impatient word or act—and to remember only unwearied, loving care, ceaseless devotion, let her be comforted. Surely “she hath done whatshe could.” Oh, my sister, my sister, be comforted! and let us dare hope that of those who watch over thee, unseen, he who writes this may be one.
FOR MY SWEET SAINT CATHERINE.
There was once a blind, crippled, helpless hulk of humanity who had a sister. And such a sister! All the women who ever wrote books, or painted pictures, or spoke or sang to gaping crowds, weren’t worth her little finger. At least, so he thought—this selfish fellow—and with good reason. For he owed it to her that life was not a burden; rather, he owed it to her that life was a pleasure. Ah, what could she have done that she did not do for him? Like a good fairy she hovered about him, studying and scheming for his comfort and diversion from morning till night. Would he be read to? She would read to him by the hour. Did some rhyme or foolish fancy escape him? She was only too eager to preserve it. She was eyes for him, she was his good right hand, she was everything! Ah, how unmindful of self, how thoughtful of him always! even striving to forget some sorrows of her own, lest her sadness might make him sad! And now that he is gone, and she has nothing to regret—not one impatient word or act—and to remember only unwearied, loving care, ceaseless devotion, let her be comforted. Surely “she hath done whatshe could.” Oh, my sister, my sister, be comforted! and let us dare hope that of those who watch over thee, unseen, he who writes this may be one.
Daylight slowly fades from the wintry sky, the firelight flickers up and down the wall, and, as night descends, little Edith falls to sleep in Kate’s arms. But are these two alone? For though there is seen no shape among the shadows, nor is heard the sound of any voice, what is that something that like a radiance suddenly overspreads the bowed face? “The peace which passeth all understanding.”