Now the lovely June days had come, everything began to look really
summer-like; school would soon be over, and the young people were
joyfully preparing for the long vacation.
“We are all going up to Bethlehem. We take the seashore one year and the
mountains the next. Better come along,” said Gus, as the boys lay on
the grass after beating the Lincolns at one of the first matches of the
season.
“Can't; we are off to Pebbly Beach the second week in July. Our invalids
need sea air. That one looks delicate, doesn't he?” asked Frank, giving
Jack a slight rap with his bat as that young gentleman lay in his usual
attitude admiring the blue hose and russet shoes which adorned his
sturdy limbs.
“Stop that, Captain! You needn't talk about invalids, when you know
mother says you are not to look at a book for a month because you
have studied yourself thin and headachy. I'm all right;” and Jack gave
himself a sounding slap on the chest, where shone the white star of the
H.B.B.C.
“Hear the little cockerel crow! you just wait till you get into the
college class, and see if you don't have to study like fun,” said Gus,
with unruffled composure, for he was going to Harvard next year, and
felt himself already a Senior.
“Never shall; I don't want any of your old colleges. I'm going into
business as soon as I can. Ed says I may be his book-keeper, if I am
ready when he starts for himself. That is much jollier than grinding
away for four years, and then having to grind ever so many more at a
profession,” said Jack, examining with interest the various knocks and
bruises with which much ball-playing had adorned his hands.
“Much you know about it. Just as well you don't mean to try, for it
would take a mighty long pull and strong pull to get you in. Business
would suit you better, and you and Ed would make a capital partnership.
Devlin, Minot, & Co. sounds well, hey, Gus?”
“Very, but they are such good-natured chaps, they'd never get rich.
By the way, Ed came home at noon to-day sick. I met him, and he looked
regularly knocked up,” answered Gus, in a sober tone.
“I told him he'd better not go down Monday, for he wasn't well Saturday,
and couldn't come to sing Sunday evening, you remember. I must go right
round and see what the matter is;” and Jack jumped up, with an anxious
face.
“Let him alone till to-morrow. He won't want any one fussing over him
now. We are going for a pull; come along and steer,” said Frank, for
the sunset promised to be fine, and the boys liked a brisk row in their
newly painted boat, the “Rhodora.”
“Go ahead and get ready, I'll just cut round and ask at the door. It
will seem kind, and I must know how Ed is. Won't be long;” and Jack was
off at his best pace.
The others were waiting impatiently when he came back with slower steps
and a more anxious face.
“How is the old fellow?” called Frank from the boat, while Gus stood
leaning on an oar in a nautical attitude.
“Pretty sick. Had the doctor. May have a fever. I didn't go in, but Ed
sent his love, and wanted to know who beat,” answered Jack, stepping to
his place, glad to rest and cool himself.
“Guess he'll be all right in a day or two;” and Gus pushed off, leaving
all care behind.
“Hope he won't have typhoid--that's no joke, I tell you,” said Frank,
who knew all about it, and did not care to repeat the experience.
“He's worked too hard. He's so faithful he does more than his share, and
gets tired out. Mother asked him to come down and see us when he has his
vacation; we are going to have high old times fishing and boating. Up or
down?” asked Jack, as they glided out into the river.
Gus looked both ways, and seeing another boat with a glimpse of red in
it just going round the bend, answered, with decision, “Up, of course.
Don't we always pull to the bridge?”
“Not when the girls are going down,” laughed Jack, who had recognized
Juliet's scarlet boating-suit as he glanced over his shoulder.
“Mind what you are about, and don't gabble,” commanded Captain Frank, as
the crew bent to their oars and the slender boat cut through the water
leaving a long furrow trembling behind.
“Oh, ah! I see! There is a blue jacket as well as a red one, so it's all
right.
“Lady Queen Anne, she sits in the sun,
As white as a lily, as brown as a bun,”
sung Jack, recovering his spirits, and wishing Jill was there too.
“Do you want a ducking?” sternly demanded Gus, anxious to preserve
discipline.
“Shouldn't mind, its so warm.”
But Jack said no more, and soon the “Rhodora” was alongside the “Water
Witch,” exchanging greetings in the most amiable manner.
“Pity this boat won't hold four. We'd put Jack in yours, and take you
girls a nice spin up to the Hemlocks,” said Frank, whose idea of bliss
was floating down the river with Annette as coxswain.
“You'd better come in here, this will hold four, and we are tired of
rowing,” returned the “Water Witch,” so invitingly that Gus could not
resist.
“I don't think it is safe to put four in there. You'd better change
places with Annette, Gus, and then we shall be ship-shape,” said Frank,
answering a telegram from the eyes that matched the blue jacket.
“Wouldn't it be _more_ ship-shape still if you put me ashore at Grif's
landing? I can take his boat, or wait till you come back. Don't care
what I do,” said Jack, feeling himself sadly in the way.
The good-natured offer being accepted with thanks, the changes were
made, and, leaving him behind, the two boats went gayly up the river. He
really did not care what he did, so sat in Grif's boat awhile watching
the red sky, the shining stream, and the low green meadows, where the
blackbirds were singing as if they too had met their little sweethearts
and were happy.
Jack remembered that quiet half-hour long afterward, because what
followed seemed to impress it on his memory. As he sat enjoying the
scene, he very naturally thought about Ed; for the face of the sister
whom he saw was very anxious, and the word “fever” recalled the hard
times when Frank was ill, particularly the night it was thought the boy
would not live till dawn, and Jack cried himself to sleep, wondering how
he ever could get on without his brother. Ed was almost as dear to him,
and the thought that he was suffering destroyed Jack's pleasure for
a little while. But, fortunately, young people do not know how to be
anxious very long, so our boy soon cheered up, thinking about the late
match between the Stars and the Lincolns, and after a good rest went
whistling home, with a handful of mint for Mrs. Pecq, and played games
with Jill as merrily as if there was no such thing as care in the world.
Next day Ed was worse, and for a week the answer was the same, when Jack
crept to the back door with his eager question.
Others came also, for the dear boy lying upstairs had friends
everywhere, and older neighbors thought of him even more anxiously and
tenderly than his mates. It was not fever, but some swifter trouble, for
when Saturday night came, Ed had gone home to a longer and more peaceful
Sabbath than any he had ever known in this world.
Jack had been there in the afternoon, and a kind message had come down
to him that his friend was not suffering so much, and he had gone away,
hoping, in his boyish ignorance, that all danger was over. An hour later
he was reading in the parlor, having no heart for play, when Frank came
in with a look upon his face which would have prepared Jack for the news
if he had seen it. But he did not look up, and Frank found it so hard to
speak, that he lingered a moment at the piano, as he often did when
he came home. It stood open, and on the rack was the “Jolly Brothers'
Galop,” which he had been learning to play with Ed. Big boy as he was,
the sudden thought that never again would they sit shoulder to shoulder,
thundering the marches or singing the songs both liked so well, made his
eyes fill as he laid away the music, and shut the instrument, feeling as
if he never wanted to touch it again. Then he went and sat down beside
Jack with an arm round his neck, trying to steady his voice by a natural
question before he told the heavy news.
“What are you reading, Jacky?”
The unusual caress, the very gentle tone, made Jack look up, and the
minute he saw Frank's face he knew the truth.
“Is Ed----?” he could not say the hard word, and Frank could only answer
by a nod as he winked fast, for the tears would come. Jack said no more,
but as the book dropped from his knee he hid his face in the sofa-pillow
and lay quite still, not crying, but trying to make it seem true that
his dear Ed had gone away for ever. He could not do it, and presently
turned his head a little to say, in a despairing tone,--
“I don't see what I _shall_ do without him!”
“I know it's hard for you. It is for all of us.”
“You've got Gus, but now I haven't anybody. Ed was always so good to
me!” and with the name so many tender recollections came, that poor Jack
broke down in spite of his manful attempts to smother the sobs in the
red pillow.
There was an unconscious reproach in the words, Frank thought; for
he was not as gentle as Ed, and he did not wonder that Jack loved and
mourned for the lost friend like a brother.
“You've got me. I'll be good to you; cry if you want to, I don't mind.”
There was such a sympathetic choke in Frank's voice that Jack felt
comforted at once, and when he had had his cry out, which was very soon,
he let Frank pull him up with a bear-like but affectionate hug, and sat
leaning on him as they talked about their loss, both feeling that there
might have been a greater one, and resolving to love one another very
much hereafter.
Mrs. Minot often called Frank the “father-boy,” because he was now the
head of the house, and a sober, reliable fellow for his years. Usually
he did not show much affection except to her, for, as he once said, “I
shall never be too old to kiss my mother,” and she often wished that he
had a little sister, to bring out the softer side of his character. He
domineered over Jack and laughed at his affectionate little ways, but
now when trouble came, he was as kind and patient as a girl; and
when Mamma came in, having heard the news, she found her “father-boy”
comforting his brother so well that she slipped away without a word,
leaving them to learn one of the sweet lessons sorrow teaches--to lean
on one another, and let each trial bring them closer together.
It is often said that there should be no death or grief in children's
stories. It is not wise to dwell on the dark and sad side of these
things; but they have also a bright and lovely side, and since even the
youngest, dearest, and most guarded child cannot escape some knowledge
of the great mystery, is it not well to teach them in simple, cheerful
ways that affection sweetens sorrow, and a lovely life can make death
beautiful? I think so, therefore try to tell the last scene in the
history of a boy who really lived and really left behind him a memory so
precious that it will not be soon forgotten by those who knew and loved
him. For the influence of this short life was felt by many, and even
this brief record of it may do for other children what the reality did
for those who still lay flowers on his grave, and try to be “as good as
Eddy.”
Few would have thought that the death of a quiet lad of seventeen
would have been so widely felt, so sincerely mourned; but virtue, like
sunshine, works its own sweet miracles, and when it was known that never
again would the bright face be seen in the village streets, the cheery
voice heard, the loving heart felt in any of the little acts which so
endeared Ed Devlin to those about him, it seemed as if young and old
grieved alike for so much promise cut off in its spring-time. This was
proved at the funeral, for, though it took place at the busy hour of a
busy day, men left their affairs, women their households, young people
their studies and their play, and gave an hour to show their affection,
respect, and sympathy for those who had lost so much.
The girls had trimmed the church with all the sweetest flowers they
could find, and garlands of lilies of the valley robbed the casket of
its mournful look. The boys had brought fresh boughs to make the grave
a green bed for their comrade's last sleep. Now they were all gathered
together, and it was a touching sight to see the rows of young faces
sobered and saddened by their first look at sorrow. The girls sobbed,
and the boys set their lips tightly as their glances fell upon the
lilies under which the familiar face lay full of solemn peace. Tears
dimmed older eyes when the hymn the dead boy loved was sung, and the
pastor told with how much pride and pleasure he had watched the gracious
growth of this young parishioner since he first met the lad of twelve
and was attracted by the shining face, the pleasant manners. Dutiful
and loving; ready to help; patient to bear and forbear; eager to excel;
faithful to the smallest task, yet full of high ambitions; and, better
still, possessing the childlike piety that can trust and believe, wait
and hope. Good and happy--the two things we all long for and so few of
us truly are. This he was, and this single fact was the best eulogy his
pastor could pronounce over the beloved youth gone to a nobler manhood
whose promise left so sweet a memory behind.
As the young people looked, listened, and took in the scene, they felt
as if some mysterious power had changed their playmate from a creature
like themselves into a sort of saint or hero for them to look up to, and
imitate if they could. “What has he done, to be so loved, praised, and
mourned?” they thought, with a tender sort of wonder; and the answer
seemed to come to them as never before, for never had they been brought
so near the solemn truth of life and death. “It was not what he did but
what he was that made him so beloved. All that was sweet and noble in
him still lives; for goodness is the only thing we can take with us when
we die, the only thing that can comfort those we leave behind, and help
us to meet again hereafter.”
This feeling was in many hearts when they went away to lay him, with
prayer and music, under the budding oak that leaned over his grave,
a fit emblem of the young life just beginning its new spring. As the
children did their part, the beauty of the summer day soothed their
sorrow, and something of the soft brightness of the June sunshine seemed
to gild their thoughts, as it gilded the flower-strewn mound they left
behind. The true and touching words spoken cheered as well as impressed
them, and made them feel that their friend was not lost but gone on
into a higher class of the great school whose Master is eternal love
and wisdom. So the tears soon dried, and the young faces looked up like
flowers after rain. But the heaven-sent shower sank into the earth, and
they were the stronger, sweeter for it, more eager to make life brave
and beautiful, because death had gently shown them what it should be.
When the boys came home they found their mother already returned, and
Jill upon the parlor sofa listening to her account of the funeral with
the same quiet, hopeful look which their own faces wore; for somehow the
sadness seemed to have gone, and a sort of Sunday peace remained.
“I'm glad it was all so sweet and pleasant. Come and rest, you look
so tired;” and Jill held out her hands to greet them--a crumpled
handkerchief in one and a little bunch of fading lilies in the other.
Jack sat down in the low chair beside her and leaned his head against
the arm of the sofa, for he was tired. But Frank walked slowly up and
down the long rooms with a serious yet serene look on his face, for he
felt as if he had learned something that day, and would always be the
better for it. Presently he said, stopping before his mother, who leaned
in the easy-chair looking up at the picture of her boys' father,--
“I should like to have just such things said about me when I die.”
“So should I, if I deserved them as Ed did!” cried Jack, earnestly.
“You may if you try. I should be proud to hear them, and if they were
true, they would comfort me more than anything else. I am glad you see
the lovely side of sorrow, and are learning the lesson such losses teach
us,” answered their mother, who believed in teaching young people to
face trouble bravely, and find the silver lining in the clouds that come
to all of us.
“I never thought much about it before, but now dying doesn't seem
dreadful at all--only solemn and beautiful. Somehow everybody seems to
love everybody else more for it, and try to be kind and good and pious.
I can't say what I mean, but you know, mother;” and Frank went pacing
on again with the bright look his eyes always wore when he listened to
music or read of some noble action.
“That's what Merry said when she and Molly came in on their way home.
But Molly felt dreadfully, and so did Mabel. She brought me these
flowers to press, for we are all going to keep some to remember dear Ed
by,” said Jill, carefully smoothing out the little bells as she laid the
lilies in her hymn-book, for she too had had a thoughtful hour while she
lay alone, imagining all that went on in the church, and shedding a few
tender tears over the friend who was always so kind to her.
“I don't want anything to remember him by. I was so fond of him, I
couldn't forget if I tried. I know I ought not to say it, but I _don't_
see why God let him die,” said Jack, with a quiver in his voice, for his
loving heart could not help aching still.
“No, dear, we cannot see or know many things that grieve us very much,
but we _can_ trust that it is right, and try to believe that all is
meant for our good. That is what faith means, and without it we are
miserable. When you were little, you were afraid of the dark, but if I
spoke or touched you, then you were sure all was well, and fell asleep
holding my hand. God is wiser and stronger than any father or mother,
so hold fast to Him, and you will have no doubt or fear, however dark it
seems.”
“As you do,” said Jack, going to sit on the arm of Mamma's chair, with
his cheek to hers, willing to trust as she bade him, but glad to hold
fast the living hand that had led and comforted him all his life.
“Ed used to say to me when I fretted about getting well, and thought
nobody cared for me, which was very naughty, 'Don't be troubled, God
won't forget you; and if you must be lame, He will make you able to
bear it,'” said Jill, softly, her quick little mind all alive with new
thoughts and feelings.
“He believed it, and that's why he liked that hymn so much. I'm glad
they sung it to-day,” said Frank, bringing his heavy dictionary to lay
on the book where the flowers were pressing.
“Oh, thank you! Could you play that tune for me? I didn't hear it, and
I'd love to, if you are willing,” asked Jill.
“I didn't think I ever should want to play again, but I do. Will you
sing it for her, mother? I'm afraid I shall break down if I try alone.”
“We will all sing, music is good for us now,” said Mamma; and in rather
broken voices they did sing Ed's favorite words:--
“Not a sparrow falleth but its God doth know,
Just as when his mandate lays a monarch low;
Not a leaflet moveth, but its God doth see,
Think not, then, O mortal, God forgetteth thee.
Far more precious surely than the birds that fly
Is a Father's image to a Father's eye.
E'en thy hairs are numbered; trust Him full and free,
Cast thy cares before Him, He will comfort thee;
For the God that planted in thy breast a soul,
On his sacred tables doth thy name enroll.
Cheer thine heart, then, mortal, never faithless be,
He that marks the sparrows will remember thee.”