LITTLE WILLIAM.
Forget her not! though now her name
Be but a mournful sound.—HEMANS.
JUST as Alfred’s papa had finished saying these words they reached the
gate of the house where they were to breakfast. It belonged to a friend
of Mr. Penrose, who wished to see him on some business; and Mr. Penrose
had chosen the early part of the day for the visit, because he was
generally much engaged at other times.
Alfred saw that the gentleman looked very serious; and that no lady sat
down to the breakfast-table with them. There were two children; a little
boy about the age of Alfred, and a sister who was older. The little
boy’s name was William. He looked pale and sad; and Alfred could not
help feeling sorry for him.
After they had finished eating breakfast, William’s papa told him that
he might take Alfred out into the garden, to walk. Rosa also went with
them, and seemed very cheerful and kind; and showed Alfred her rabbits,
and her birds and flowers. She said,
“William used to love these, and helped me to take care of them once;
but he does not care anything about them now.”
When Rosa said this, Alfred saw the tears come into William’s eyes, and
he wished Rosa had not spoken so.
William said,
“I did love them when mamma was here, Rosa; but now everything makes me
feel sorry.”
Then Rosa turned red, and went into the house; and William cried very
much, as Alfred stood by him. Alfred said,
“Has your mamma gone away from you?”
“Yes,” said little William, “my mamma died two weeks ago. I know she has
gone to heaven; but I miss her very much. Nobody loves me as she did.”
Alfred felt ready to cry too. He said,
“But you know if you are a good boy you will go to heaven too, William,
and see your dear mamma in that beautiful place.”
“Yes, I know it,” said William. “She told me so before she died. She
said if I was a good boy it would not be long before I should come to
her; and that then she would not go away from me any more.”
Alfred was an affectionate child. His heart was full of sorrow for
little William. All the way home he could talk of nothing else: but he
was glad when his papa told him that William’s father had promised to
let his little boy come over, on the next week, and spend several days
with them.
William came; and soon felt quite at home. Mrs. Penrose liked to hear
him talk of his good mother; and all the family loved him, for he was a
good-tempered and interesting little fellow.
The evening after Alfred’s first visit to William, he told his sister
Jane about him. The next morning she brought him a folded paper, and, as
she opened it, said,
“Alfred, I thought so much of your little friend last night that I wrote
some verses about him, which I will read to you.”
The verses were as follows; and were headed,
THE MOTHERLESS BOY.
It is the hour when I was wont,
At my lost mother’s knee,
To say my little evening prayer,
Before she read to me.
But many weary months have pass’d,
And many tears I’ve shed,
Since I have felt her gentle hand
Laid kindly on my head.
The hour I loved so dearly once,
Now only sorrow brings;
No mother reads the word of life,
Or song of Zion sings.
A stranger comes, with careless voice
And bids for bed prepare;
And often hardly gives me time
To say a hurried prayer.
Although this room is just the same,
It wears a mournful look;
Yet here’s her bed, and here’s the stand
Which bears the holy book,
That tells me of another land,
In which she dwelleth now:
O, often o’er that book she bent,
With pale and earnest brow!
In other days this little room
A temple seem’d to me;
She taught me here to worship God
In truth and purity.
The fields beneath the window smile,
And wear their summer hue;
The flowers she nursed look gay and bright,
As when they met her view.
Yet, O, to me no thought of joy
This happy season bears;
All dimm’d are these delightful scenes
With thick and blinding tears.
I cannot laugh as once I could,
Nor hide the deep distress
That breaks my heart, when I reflect
That I am motherless.
And, sister, when I see you stand,
With such an anxious air,
Before the glass, your sash to fix,
And smooth your braided hair;
I think of one so far above
The petty pride of dress;
Who only shone in plain attire
And simple loveliness.
She’s gone! but let her image sweet
Be in our memory set;
And her example, pure and bright,
Ah, let us not forget!
We see her not; but I believe
Her mild and pitying-eye
From heaven with anxious love looks down,
Our actions to espy.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.