May. “I am disposed to be merciful toward the short-comings of my
fellow-creatures, and I cannot believe our Heavenly Father will be
less so. I remember Miss Crosby talked to me about the heathen one
day, and I thought she talked hard. I don’t recollect what I said
to her; but after I arrived at years of reflection I came to some
conclusions different from the views we were brought up in. You
know my dear Frank was an invalid many years. He was always in the
house, and we read to each other, and talked over what we read.
In that way, I got the best part of the education I have after I
was married. Among other things he read to me some translations
from what the Hindoos believe in as their Bible; and some of the
writings of Rammohun Roy; and we both came to the conclusion that
some who were called heathens might be nearer to God than many
professing Christians. You know, Hatty, that Jesus walked and
talked with his disciples, and their hearts were stirred, but they
didn’t know him. Now it seems to me that the spirit of Jesus may
walk and talk with good pious Hindoos and Mahometans, and may stir
their hearts, though they don’t know him.”
“You may be right,” rejoined the invalid. “God’s ways are above
our ways. It’s a pity friends should be set against one another
on account of what they believe, or don’t believe. Pray for _me_,
Jenny, and I will pray for _you_.”
It was the latter part of October, when Mrs. May carried a garland
of bright autumn leaves to pin up opposite her friend’s bed. “It is
beautiful,” said the invalid; “but the colors are not so brilliant
as those you and I used to gather in Maine. O, how the woods glowed
there, at this season! I wish I could see them again.”
Mrs. May smiled, and answered, “Perhaps you _will_, dear.”
Her friend looked in her face, with an earnest, questioning glance;
but she only said, “Sing our old favorite tune in bygone days,
Jenny.” She seated herself by the bedside and sang:
“The Lord my shepherd is,
I shall be well supplied;
Since he is mine, and I am his,
What can I want beside?”
Perceiving that the invalid grew drowsy, she continued to hum in
a low, lulling tone. When she was fast asleep, she rose up, and,
after gazing tenderly upon her, crept softly out of the room. She
never looked in those old dim eyes again. The next morning they
told her the spirit had departed from its frail tenement.
Some clothing and a few keepsakes were transmitted to Mrs. May
soon after, in compliance with the expressed wish of her departed
friend. Among them was the locket containing a braid of her own
youthful hair. It was the very color of little Jenny’s, only the
glossy brown was a shade darker. She placed the two lockets side
by side, and wiped the moisture from her spectacles as she gazed
upon them. Then she wrapped them together, and wrote on them, with
a trembling hand, “The hair of Grandmother and her old friend
Hatty; for my darling little Jenny.”
When Neighbor Harrington came in to examine the articles that
had been sent, the old lady said to her: “There is nobody left
now to call me Jenny. But here is my precious _little_ Jenny.
_She_’ll never forsake her old granny; _will_ she, darling?” The
child snuggled fondly to her side, and stood on tiptoe to kiss the
wrinkled face, which was to her the dearest face in the whole world.
She never did desert her good old friend. She declined marrying
during Mrs. May’s lifetime, and waited upon her tenderly to the
last. Robin, who proved a bright scholar, went to the West to
teach school, with the view of earning money to buy a farm, where
grandmother should be the queen. He wrote her many loving letters,
and sent portions of his earnings to her and Sissy; but she
departed this life before his earthly paradise was made ready for
her. The last tune she sang was St. Martin’s; and the last words
she spoke were: “How many blessings I have received! Thank the Lord
for all his mercies!”
[Illustration]
THE GOOD OLD GRANDMOTHER,
WHO DIED AGED EIGHTY.
O softly wave the silver hair
From off that aged brow!
That crown of glory, worn so long,
A fitting crown is now.
Fold reverently the weary hands,
That toiled so long and well,
And, while your tears of sorrow fall,
Let sweet thanksgivings swell.
That life-work, stretching o’er long years,
A varied web has been;
With silver strands by sorrow wrought,
And sunny gleams between.
These silver hairs stole softly on,
Like flakes of falling snow,
That wrap the green earth lovingly,
When autumn breezes blow.
Each silver hair, each wrinkle there,
Records some good deed done;
Some flower she cast along the way,
Some spark from love’s bright sun.
How bright she always made her home!
It seemed as if the floor
Was always flecked with spots of sun,
And barred with brightness o’er.
The very falling of her step
Made music as she went;
A loving song was on her lip,
The song of full content.
And now, in later years, her word
Has been a blessed thing
In many a home, where glad she saw
Her children’s children spring.
Her widowed life has happy been,
With brightness born of heaven;
So pearl and gold in drapery fold
The sunset couch at even.
O gently fold the weary hands
That toiled so long and well;
The spirit rose to angel bands,
When off earth’s mantle fell.
She’s safe within her Father’s house,
Where many mansions be;
O pray that thus such rest may come,
Dear heart, to thee and me!
ANONYMOUS.
[Illustration]
THE CONSOLATIONS OF AGE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
From all I have narrated concerning my good and evil days, some may
infer that I have been on the whole a favorite of fortune; that
I may very well be philosophic, and maintain a rosy good-humor,
since, with the exception of a few self-torments of the fancy, I
have seldom or never experienced a misfortune. But indeed I _have_
met with what men usually style great misfortunes, or evils, though
I never so named them. Like every mortal, I have had my share
of what is called human misery. The weight of a sudden load has
sometimes, for a moment, staggered me and pressed me down, as is
the case with others. But, with renewed buoyancy of spirit, I have
soon risen again, and borne the burden allotted to me, without
discontent. Nay, more than this, though some may shake their heads
incredulously, it is a fact that worldly suffering has often not
been disagreeable to me. It has weaned me from placing my trust
in transitory things. It has shown me the degree of strength and
self-reliance I could retain, even at that period of life when the
passions reign. I am fully convinced that there is no evil in the
world but sin. Nothing but consciousness of guilt spins a dark
thread, which reaches through the web of all our days, even unto
the grave. God is not the author of calamity, but only man, by his
weakness, his over-estimate of pompous vanities, and the selfish
nurture of his appetites. He weeps like a child because he cannot
have his own way, and even at seventy years of age is not yet a
man. He bewails himself, because God does not mind him. Yet every
outward misfortune is in truth as worthy a gift of God as outward
success.
In common with others, I have met with ingratitude from many; but
it did not disquiet me; because what I had done for them was not
done for thanks. Friends have deceived me, but it did not make me
angry with them; for I saw that I had only deceived myself with
regard to them. I have endured misapprehension and persecution with
composure, being aware of the unavoidable diversity of opinions,
and of the passions thereby excited. I have borne the crosses
of poverty without a murmur; for experience had taught me that
outward poverty often brings inward wealth. I have lost a moderate
property, which I had acquired by toil, but such losses did not
imbitter me for a single day; they only taught me to work and
spare. I have been the happy father of happy children. Twelve sons
and one daughter I have counted; and I have had to sit, with a
bleeding heart, at the death-bed of four of those sons. As they
drew their last breath, I felt that divine sorrow which transforms
the inner man. My spirit rested on the Father of the universe,
and it was well with me. My dead ones were not parted from me.
Those who remained behind drew the more closely to one another,
while eagerly looking toward those who had gone before them to
other mansions of the Great Father. It was our custom to think of
the deceased as still living in the midst of us. We were wont to
talk about their little adventures, their amusing sallies, and the
noble traits of their characters. Everything noteworthy concerning
_them_, as well as what related to the _living_ members of the
family, was recorded by the children in a chronicle they kept in
the form of a newspaper, and was thus preserved from oblivion.
Death is something festal, great, like all the manifestations of
God here below. The death of my children hallowed me; it lifted
me more and more out of the shows of earth, into the divine. It
purified my thoughts and feelings. I wept, as a child of the dust
_must_ do; but in spirit I was calm and cheerful, because I knew to
whom I and mine belonged.
At the beginning of old age, I could indeed call myself a happy
man. On my seventieth birthday, I felt as if I were standing
on a mountain height, at whose foot the ocean of eternity was
audibly rushing; while behind me, life, with its deserts and
flower-gardens, its sunny days and its stormy days, spread out
green, wild, and beautiful. Formerly, when I read or heard of the
joylessness of age, I was filled with sadness; but I now wondered
that it presented so much that was agreeable. The more the world
diminished and grew dark, the less I felt the loss of it; for the
dawn of the next world grew ever clearer and clearer.
Thus rejoicing in God, and with him, I advance into the winter
of life, beyond which no spring awaits me on this planet. The
twilight of my existence on earth is shining round me; but the
world floats therein in a rosy light, more beautiful than the
dawn of life. Others may look back with homesickness to the lost
paradise of childhood. That paradise was never mine. I wandered
about, an orphan, unloved, and forsaken of all but God. I thank him
for this allotment; for it taught me to build my paradise within.
The solemn evening is at hand, and it is welcome. I repent not
that I have lived. Others, in their autumn, can survey and count
up their collected harvests. This I cannot. I have scattered seed,
but whither the wind has carried it I know not. The good-will
alone was mine. God’s hand decided concerning the success of my
labor. Many an unproductive seed I have sown; but I do not, on
that account, complain either of myself or of Heaven. Fortune has
lavished on me no golden treasures; but contented with what my
industry has acquired,
and my economy has preserved, I enjoy that
noble independence at which I have
always aimed; and out of the little
I possess I have been sometimes
able to afford assistance
to others who were
less fortunate.
[Illustration]
AN healthy old fellow, that is not a fool, is the happiest
creature living. It is at that time of life only men enjoy
their faculties with pleasure and satisfaction. It is then
we have nothing to _manage_, as the phrase is; we speak the
downright truth; and whether the rest of the world will _give_
us the privilege, or not, we have so little to ask of them,
that we can _take_ it.--STEELE.
[Illustration]
THE OLD MAN DREAMS.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
O for one hour of youthful joy!
Give me back my twentieth spring!
I’d rather laugh a bright-haired boy,
Than reign a gray-beard king!
Off with the wrinkled spoils of age!
Away with learning’s crown!
Tear out life’s wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down!
One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood’s fount of fame!
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and flame!
My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
“If I but touch thy silvered hair,
Thy hasty wish hath sped.
“But is there nothing in thy track
To bid thee fondly stay,
While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day?”
Ah, truest soul of womankind!
Without _thee_, what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind:
I’ll take--my--precious--wife!
The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew,
“The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband too!”
“And is there nothing yet unsaid,
Before the change appears?
Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years!”
Why, yes; for memory would recall
My fond paternal joys;
I could not bear to leave them all:
I’ll take--my--girl--and--boys!
The smiling angel dropped his pen,--
“Why, this will never do;
The man would be a boy again,
And be a father too!”
And so I laughed,--my laughter woke
The household with its noise,--
And wrote my dream, when morning broke,
To please the gray-haired boys.
[Illustration]
A RUSSIAN LADY
OF THE OLD SCHOOL.[A]
[A] From Life in the Interior of Russia.
Give me your hand, dear reader, and accompany me on a visit to one
of my neighbors. The day is fine, the blue sky of the month of
May is a beautiful object; the smooth young leaves of the white
hazel-trees are as brilliant as if they had been newly washed.
The large, smooth fields are covered with that fine young grass
which the sheep love so much to crop; on the right and left, on
the long slopes of the hills, the rye-grass is waving, and over
its smooth swell glide the shadows of the little flying clouds. In
the distance, the woods are resplendent with the brilliant light;
the ponds glitter, and the villages are bathed in yellow rays.
Innumerable larks fly about, singing and beating their wings in
unison; making their appearance first in one spot, then in another,
they rise lightly from the fields, and again are as quickly lost
in them. The rooks station themselves on the highway, looking up
fixedly at the sun; they move aside to let you pass, or foolishly
fly forward ten paces on the edge of the road. On the slopes beyond
a ravine a laborer is at his plough, and a piebald foal, with its
miserable little tail, dishevelled mane, and long, frail legs, runs
after its mother, and we may just hear its plaintive neigh. We
enter a birch wood, and a fresh and strong odor fills the air; we
reach the gate of an enclosure; the coachman descends, and, while
the horses snort, and the right wheeler plays with his tail, and
rubs his jaw against the pole, he opens the creaking gate, and,
reseating himself, we roll on.
A village now presents itself, and, after passing five or six
farm-yards, we turn to the right, and descending rapidly, are soon
driving along an embankment. Beyond a pond of moderate extent, and
behind apple-trees and clustering lilacs, an old wooden house is
now visible, painted red, and possessing two chimneys. We drive
along a paling on the left, and pass through a large open carriage
entrance, saluted by the husky barkings of three old worn-out dogs.
My groom gallantly salutes an old housekeeper, who is peeping out
of the pantry through a foot and a half window. We draw up before
the door near the veranda of a gloomy little house. It is the abode
of Tatiana Borissovna. But there she is herself, saluting us from
the window. “Good morning, good morning, Madame.”
Tatiana Borissovna is a woman of about fifty; she has large
bluish-gray eyes, slightly prominent, a nose inclined to flatness,
cherry cheeks, and a double chin. Her face beams with sweetness
and goodness. She once had a husband, but so long ago that no one
has any recollection of it. She scarcely ever leaves her little
property, keeps up but a slight connection with her neighbors,
seldom invites them to her house, and likes none but young people.
Her father was a poor gentleman, and she consequently received
a very imperfect education; in other words, she does not speak
French, and has never seen even Moscow, not to speak of St.
Petersburg. But, spite of these little defects, she manages all
her affairs in her country life so simply and wisely; she has so
large a way of thinking, of feeling, and comprehending things;
she is so little accessible to the thousand weaknesses which are
generally found in our good provincial ladies,--poor things,--that,
in truth, one cannot help admiring her. Only consider that she
lives all the year round within the precincts of her own village
and estate, quite isolated, and that she remains a stranger to all
the tittle-tattle of the locality; does not rail, slander, take
offence, or choke and fret with curiosity; that envy, jealousy,
aversion, and restlessness of body and mind, are all unknown to
her; only consider this, and grant that she is a marvel. Every day
after eleven o’clock she is dressed in a gown of iron-gray taffeta,
and a white cap with long pure ribbons; she likes to eat, and make
others do the same; but she eats moderately, and lets others follow
her example. Preserves, fruits, pickled meats, are all intrusted to
the housekeeper. With what, then, does she occupy herself, and how
does she fill up her day? She reads, perhaps, you will say. No, she
does not read; and, to speak the truth, people must think of others
than Tatiana Borissovna when they print a book. In winter, if she
is alone, our Tatiana Borissovna sits near a window, and quietly
knits a stocking; in summer she goes and comes in her garden,
where she plants and waters flowers, picks the caterpillars from
her shrubs, puts props under her bushes, and sprinkles sand over
the garden paths; then she can amuse herself for hours with the
feathered race in her court-yard, with her kittens and pigeons, all
of which she feeds herself. She occupies herself very little with
housekeeping. If, unexpectedly, any good young neighbor chances
to look in, she is then as happy as possible; she establishes
herself upon her divan, regales her visitor with tea, hears all
he has to say, sometimes gives him little friendly pats on the
cheek, laughs heartily at his sallies, and speaks little herself.
Are you annoyed, or the victim of some misfortune? She consoles
you with the most sympathizing words, and opens up various means
of relief, all full of good sense. How many there are, who, after
confiding to her their family secrets and their private griefs,
have found themselves so relieved by unburdening their minds, that
they have bathed her hands with their tears. In general, she sits
right before her guest, her head leaning lightly on her left hand,
looking in his face with so much kindly interest, smiling with
such friendly good-nature, that one can scarcely keep himself from
saying, “Ah! what an excellent woman you are, Tatiana Borissovna.
Come, I will conceal from
you nothing that weighs upon my heart.” In her
delightful, nice little rooms, one is so
pleased with himself and everybody,
that he is unwilling to leave
them; in this little
heaven, the weather
is always at
“set fair.”
[Illustration]
The happiness of life may be greatly increased by small courtesies
in which there is no parade, whose voice is too still to tease,
and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks,
and little kind acts of attention, giving others the preference
in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking,
sitting, or standing.--STERNE.
[Illustration]
THE OLD MAN’S SONG.
TO HIS WIFE.
Oh, don’t be sorrowful, darling!
Now don’t be sorrowful, pray!
For, taking the year together, my dear,
There isn’t more night than day.
’Tis rainy weather, my darling;
Time’s waves they heavily run;
But, taking the year together, my dear,
There isn’t more cloud than sun.
We are old folks now, my darling;
Our heads they are growing gray;
But, taking the year all round, my dear,
You will always find the May.
We’ve _had_ our May, my darling,
And our roses, long ago;
And the time of the year is coming, my dear,
For the long dark nights and the snow.
But God is God, my darling,
Of night, as well as of day;
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever He leads the way.
Ay, God of the night, my darling;
Of the night of death so grim.
The gate that from life leads out, good wife,
Is the gate that leads to Him.
ANONYMOUS.
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH.
THE BIRTHDAY OF ----.
Now be the hours that yet remain to thee
Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love,
That inextinguishably dwell within
Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light
To the most desolate moments, like the glow
Of a bright fireside in the wildest day;
And kindly words and offices of good
Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on,
Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates
Of a more genial season, and thy path
Be lost to human eye among the bowers
And living fountains of a brighter land.
WM. C. BRYANT.
[Illustration]
A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR GRANDFATHER.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and
he set out upon a journey. It was a magic journey, and was to seem
very long when he began it, and very short when he got half-way
through.
He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without
meeting anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. So he
said to the child, “What do you here?” And the child said, “I am
always at play. Come and play with me!”
So, he played with that child the whole day long, and they were
very merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water
was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were
so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds, and saw so many
butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine
weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops
and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to
listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from
its home--where was that, they wondered!--whistling and howling,
and driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in
the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in fury.
But when it snowed, that was the best of all; for they liked
nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and
thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds; and
to see how smooth and deep the drift was, and to listen to the hush
upon the paths and roads.
They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most
astonishing picture-books, all about scimitars and slippers
and turbans, and dwarfs and giants, and genii and fairies, and
blue-beards and bean-stalks, and riches, and caverns and forests,
and Valentines and Orsons: and all new and all true.
But one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called
to him over and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon
his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything,
until at last he came to a handsome boy. So, he said to the boy,
“What do you here?” And the boy said, “I am always learning. Come
and learn with me.”
So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks
and the Romans, and I don’t know what, and learned more than I
could tell,--or he either; for he soon forgot a great deal of it.
But they were not always learning; they had the merriest games
that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and
skated on the ice in winter; they were active afoot, and active on
horseback; at cricket, and all games at ball; at prisoners’ base,
hare and hounds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can think
of; nobody could beat them. They had holidays, too, and Twelfth
cakes, and parties where they danced all night till midnight, and
real theatres, where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise
out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at
once. As to friends, they had such dear friends, and so many of
them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They were all young,
like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another
all their lives through.
Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller
lost the boy, as he had lost the child, and, after calling on him
in vain, went on upon his journey. So he went on for a little while
without seeing anything, until at last he came to a young man. So,
he said to the young man, “What do you here?” And the young man
said, “I am always in love. Come and love with me.”