_At Easter-time_
April was two weeks old. Already Passion-week had come. Easter-time
would soon begin. Crocuses dotted the short new grass on the lawn. Mated
robins chose nesting places in the old orchard, and the big cherry tree
had put on its crown of snow-tipped buds.
On that cheery spring morning--wheeled out for her daily airing--"The
Lady" looked expectantly at the bulbs' circles, where the newly
uncovered hyacinths and tulips--pushing vigorously up for the sun's warm
kisses--already showed bud and leaf of pale tender green.
Dear patient Lady! Would that God had spared her to see another "Spring
put on its bloom," but ere the day had done He called her to the
"Immortal gardens where angels are the wardens."
With scarce a pang, her tired old heart ceased beating.
It had been the fancy of this dear cousin of my husband to select me
among her relatives as the superintendent of her funeral--to "lay her
away," as she quaintly expressed it--and it had long been impressed upon
me that I must "save myself" for that responsible trust. Often when I
came over from Cambridge to share her mid-day meal, she looked
compassionately at my tired face, as I arranged the big basket of
flowers brought for her vases (among which she especially doted on the
pansies, with their charming variety of color), and holding up a warning
finger, said discouragedly: "Cousin, you over-work. Take more rest, or
you will pass on before me, and _then_, who will lay me away?"
And so it was, that on Easter Sunday--not altogether without that "pomp
and circumstance" which, from time immemorial, had attended the Mansion
House funerals--I arranged her burial. With the sweet spring air coming
in at the open sunny window--flowers perfuming and brightening the house
and clasped loosely in her folded hands, and with so sweet a smile upon
her lips that it half seemed a welcome to the neighbors and friends who
looked their last upon her benignant face, still untouched by "the
finger of decay"--I gave her grudgingly to the cold dark grave, where
among her dear kindred (in a self-chosen site) we laid her--"ashes to
ashes, dust to dust."
The simple head-stone appointed by herself marks the spot; it holds this
tender legend, prepared by one who knew her:
"Her life was sweet with charity and patience."
I like to fancy her "homing shade" still, in the long summer afternoons,
haunting the old garden of her love; watching, as of old, the flitting
of butterflies, listening to the glad singing of birds, and marking upon
the lawn the lovely shadows lengthen in the west'ring sun.
"Only the forgotten are dead."