“It’s lonesome without _him_!”
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
about it; 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?
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 you _must_ care, 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 forgotten all 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 without _him_!”
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.”
“_Are_ you 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! I _did_ ’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 clung caressingly, 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.