Chapter I: HAD been for some years in poor health, and, at length, became almost (2)

Before I was half through the first line, most of the audience were singing; many, I doubt not, with a tearful memory of other days. The effect can not be described. Many a hallowed association was called up at that moment, to thrill the hearts of wanderers from earlier influences.

But what an hour was that when, after many struggles, the church was formed! The rain and the "bad going" did not keep the faithful few away. A venerated servant of Christ, living a "mile and a half off" on the prairie, seeking relief from the painful disease that had interrupted a useful pastorate, was punctually present, and, grasping my hand, said, "I did not know how I should get here; and when I came to the stream, and found there was no way to cross, I did not know for a moment, but I must turn back; it was hard to do it, however, and I just 'waded through,' and here I am!"

Then later came the longed-for blessing. The rain of the Spirit descended, and in many a household was heard the inquiry, "What shall I do?" and the rejoicing of new-born souls.

Mr. and Mrs. L. were both members of our little church, and the family altar was no longer neglected. Aunt Flora, however, remained outside of the widening circles of salvation; she continued to absent herself from family devotions. But at length there was a change, imperceptible at first to most. Her voice was losing its harshness, her manner becoming more genial, and, though taciturn still, various little offices of kindness attested her growing interest. The "two" who, by agreement, were laying her case day and night before the Hearer of prayer took courage.

I embraced an opportunity to say to Mrs. L., "Do yourself and husband discharge your duty toward aunt Flora? Do you pray for and labor with her? If I mistake not, the Holy Spirit is leading her to thoughtfulness—to God."

"You do not 'know' aunt Flora," she replied, with a look of surprise. "She will never change; I can not expect it!"

Oh, how prone God's people are to limit his grace.

On Sabbath days Mr. L., in his large-hearted way, loaded his long wagon with neighbors, and, in his zeal to get people to meeting, sometimes sent the ox-cart too. All the family, save aunt Flora, went. One Sunday morning, as we were setting out, she stood in the doorway, holding a babe left in her charge for the day. There was a tender, pensive expression on her face, and I said: "Good morning, aunt Flora. It makes us feel sad to leave you behind. God can bless you at home, however."

I had never ventured much on the subject so unpleasant to her, but the parting remark was well received. I detected symptoms of deep emotion as she turned away, and I said to Mrs. L., "It would not surprise me to learn that aunt Flora reads the Bible after we are gone." Still the same incredulity.

About sundown, a few weeks after this, a messenger called at our house—for we were then housekeeping, some two miles from Mr. L.'s,—stating that aunt Flora had been taken suddenly ill, and wished myself and wife to visit her immediately. We were speedily by her bedside; but what a happy place was that! Suffering intense physical anguish, her face was radiant with heavenly light, and, with shouts of joy, she was triumphing in the love of a faithful and almighty Saviour.

"O Jesus! Jesus! How lovely, how glorious! I am his, and he is mine!" she exclaimed.

"How is this?" I cried, seizing her hand. "Do you, indeed, love the Saviour?"

"Oh, yes," she replied; "he called after me; he sought me, and found me; and I will praise him forever."

"This is, indeed, joyful news. But when did this change take place?"

"It was the Sabbath morning when you all left me to go to meeting. After I entered the room, something seemed to tell me that I was soon to die, and that I must prepare for it. I did not know what to do, but took up the Bible, thinking perhaps God would show me the way. While reading the chapter to which I opened, it seemed as if a great light shone on the words, and I saw how kind and loving Jesus was; how he loved sinners like me, and how he would receive me if I would only come. I came to him; and, glory to his name! he did receive me, and I am so happy! Help me praise him, all of you!"

"What chapter was it, aunt Flora, that was so blessed to you?"

"I do not know," she replied. "It was in the New Testament. It was about the woman that broke the alabaster box of precious ointment on the Saviour's feet, and wiped them with the hair of her head. And after I am gone," she added, "I want you to preach my funeral sermon from that chapter. I do not know where it is, I have read the Bible so little; but you can find it."

"We hope that you will get well, and live to do much good yet."

"No, no; my time has come, I am sure of it; and I am going home. I'm going to Jesus."

Mr. and Mrs. L. stood by in joyful surprise at her change. In earnest words she exhorted them to faithfulness and diligence; then calling in members of the household still unrenewed, warned and entreated them to seek the Saviour; their tearful promises witnessing to the power of her appeals.

One thing perplexed me. During the fortnight that intervened till she "fell asleep," she would quote passages of Scripture from the Old and New Testaments with surprising accuracy, copiousness, and pertinency, expressing herself almost wholly in the language of inspiration.

I said to her, "How is it that you can thus quote from the Bible, when, for many years, you have not read or heard it read?" The answer should thrill the heart of every Christian parent and Sabbath school teacher.

"Oh," said she, with a happy smile, "those are passages that I heard my father read at family prayers when I was a little child!"

"Let those who sow in sadness wait
Till the fair harvest come;
They shall confess their sheaves are great,
And shout the blessings home."

"How I love you!" she exclaimed, on one occasion; "you are my spiritual father; and you (turning to my wife) are my spiritual mother! But, oh! how much more I love Jesus. Now I long to be with him." And thus aunt Flora passed away,—smiling, shouting, triumphing,—a "more than conqueror!"

At sunset, one day, I had strolled down to the quiet nook, by the shaded lakelet selected as Mr. L.'s family burial ground. It was on his land, and in sight from the windows, as if they could not trust their treasures further off. Judson, an infant son, and aunt Flora, lay there side by side, under those three grassy mounds.

I thought of that first, sad visit to the stricken family; of the singular way it was brought about, through the suggestions of my infidel friend; of the death on the prairie, and how this event, to which the mother was so long unreconciled, led to my removal to L.; of the subsequent labor and blessing.

Returning to the house, conversation turned to that very theme. I reminded them of the remark at the funeral, that if they would cease looking at secondary causes, they would find that the Lord had gracious designs in his dealings with them. "Now," said I, "see what has resulted! you have the gospel here, a Sabbath school, a Christian church, a revival, and in your own circle, 'the blessing that maketh rich;' you are both in the church; the family altar, over the desolation of which your son mourned, is restored, and aunt Flora is in heaven. Is it not true that—

"'God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform'?"

"Yes," replied Mr. L., "it was hard losing our boy. But it has brought great blessings to us. God has done right," adding, in a husky voice,—

"'Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.'"

A RIDE TO A WESTERN WEDDING.

AMONG the checkered scenes of missionary life on the frontier, there are not many more pleasant than a genuine Western wedding. The heartiness, the bold dash, the generous hospitality of the thing, and often the novel phases of social-life which it reveals, together, of course, with the "fee," which is rarely small in proportion to the ability of the parties, make the event quite welcome to the toiling preacher.

One day, on answering a modest knock, there stood before our log-house door a young man, barefooted, coatless, with coarse, well-patched pants and rimless straw hat, his face beaming with a bashful happiness, which would at once have suggested his errand were it not for his garb, or rather, want of garb.

"Are you the minister?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

Then followed a pause.

"Is there any thing," said I, breaking the silence, "that I can do for you?"

"Yes. I came to see if you could come down to Mr. Dearborn's next Thursday, and marry a couple."

"Where does Mr. Dearborn live?"

"Seven miles below here, on the other side of the river. They want you at two o'clock, Thursday afternoon."

"I will endeavor to be there at that time," said I; "but who are the parties?"

"Oh," he replied, with a look which was its own interpreter, "you will know when you get there."

After getting all the directions needful for finding the place, I was about closing the interview, but my caller lingered as if he had more to say; and, after evident embarrassment, asked what I "charged for marrying folks?"

"I generally leave that to the parties," said I.

Then ensued another pause, broken, at length, by his saying, in a depressed tone,—

"I have no money now; perhaps you wouldn't come down and marry us, and wait for your pay?"

"That I will," I replied. "And, Providence permitting, you will see me at precisely the hour named."

The cloud lifted from the sunburnt face, and smilingly thanking me, he hurried away with a light step.

Seven miles in prairie land is a short distance; but not being in a mood to walk, I engaged a horse of a neighbor. Meanwhile, for the two intervening days, it rained, or rather poured incessantly, moderating to a gentle fall on Thursday. On calling for the horse, however, the owner was reluctant to let him go.

"Elder," said he (he was a Methodist), "are you used to managing horses?"

"Somewhat—why?"

"Because," he added, "my horse is a high-spirited fellow, and has a bad trick of throwing folks. Few can ride him without getting hurt. The fact is, I didn't sleep a wink last night, worrying about consenting to let you have him; and I don't feel right to let him go without speaking of it."

"How does he throw his riders?" I asked.

"By suddenly jumping to one side. He's powerful at jumping—beats all the horses I ever saw in 'that' line," said he.

"I can look out for him!"

"He'll outwit you, elder; hope you won't try it."

But it was too late to go in search of another, and pleading urgent business and willingness to incur all risks, the formidable beast was led out—a powerful, intelligent, fiery animal, black as a raven.

What can be more inspiriting than a horseback jaunt across a rolling Northwest prairie. So, despite the cold and rain, and now and then a prodigious leap by Black Hawk, the ride was most exhilarating. It was two miles to the bridge. On arriving there, I found that the freshet had swept it away. Just in sight, however, in the margin of a fine grove, was a snug little cabin, and riding briskly there, the barking of dogs and my shouts brought the proprietor to the door, a bevy of flaxen-haired urchins at his heels, with eyes brimful of curiosity.

"Is there any way to cross the river?" I asked.

"Yes; on the bridge," he replied, curtly.

"The bridge is gone."

"Well, then there 'isn't' any way."

"But is there no place on the stream shoal enough to be forded?"

The settler scratched his head comically, scanned me and my beast leisurely, and said,—

"Take the road to the left, and you will come to the old ford; how it will be in this flood, can't say. You can try it, though, if you like; nothing like trying, they say."

There was "need" of trying, I found, on reaching the spot. There rolled the river, deep and wide, with steep banks on either side. What was to be done? Go back and wait till the waters subsided? That was not "Western." The genuine pioneer never thinks of giving up an enterprise. A short experience in the vicissitudes of frontier life wakes up a self-reliance and love of adventure, which make danger and difficulty to be courted rather than shunned,—indeed, they are every-day occurrences, adding piquancy to privation and hardship. And, as I looked down into the water of the river, there rose to view the image of that ragged, barefoot, coatless, moneyless bridegroom; and memory recalled certain facts which I had learned about his borrowing articles of apparel for himself and bride, and materials for a wedding supper. Now, to disappoint persons in their condition was hardly to be thought of. So, chirruping to my good steed, we made the plunge—and a deep plunge it was, for the animal above as well as the animal beneath—for the former went nearly to his neck. However, the horse soon rose to the surface, permitting his rider, by a happy exercise of unwonted agility, to strike the saddle "a la Turk," which position I prudently kept till the opposite shore was gained. Clambering up the steep bank, my borrowed steed went at a break-neck pace the remaining five miles to our destination. It was a small, framed house, perched on a swell of land in the midst of a wide prairie, dotted with an occasional cabin. The dwelling was covered only with rough boards, between which the over-restless winds came and went at will. Alighting at the gate, a gray-haired man—the bride's father, who was cutting wood in the little front yard—laid down his ax and came forward to take my horse. He had, as I afterwards learned, served in the Mexican war, and had still a soldierly bearing. Taking the bridle, he said,—

"You are the minister, I suppose. We had given you up, thinking you would not come in such a storm as this. But how did you cross the river? We heard the bridge was gone."

"Horseback," said I.

"Well," said the old soldier, his eye kindling, "'a minister that can do that can preach, I know'!"

I had fulfilled my engagement partly from sympathy and the pleasure of conquering obstacles; there was, beside, a sort of presentiment that urged me on; nor did I in the end regret that I yielded to it.

The interior of the humble dwelling, and its occupants, I shall not soon forget. What taste and neatness under the most discouraging circumstances! What method and fertility of arrangement where all was plain, and rough, and scant! It is on the frontier, where the appliances of elegant housewifery are impossible, that woman's fertile resources of tact and skill most strikingly appear—often making the rude log-house and simple, home-made furniture wear an aspect of comfort and taste not unfrequently wanting in homes of luxury.

The household consisted of the father, already introduced,—mother, three daughters, and the young man who had called for my services.

"Mother is not well, and would like to see you a moment," remarked one or the young ladies, showing me into an adjoining room, where loving hands had spared no pains to fortify its pining inmate against exposure, and soothe the anguish of suffering.

A bed, with its snowy counterpane and tasteful curtains, stood in a corner of the apartment. On it reclined the dying mother, the emaciated frame and hectic cheek marking her a victim of consumption.

"I am so glad to see you," said she, extending her hand. "It is a long while since a minister of the gospel has entered our door; and yet I regret you have been put to so much trouble and exposure in coming. God will reward you! But I wish to speak with you about this marriage."

I learned from herself and husband that they were from New England, and in this and subsequent conversations gathered quite a connected account of their peculiar domestic and religious life.

Mr. Dearborn, like many other good men, at the period when, by prophetic interpretation, the time of the end of the world was proclaimed to be ascertained by Mr. Miller and others, became a convert to that theory. Not that he had ever examined for himself, or was competent to examine, the premises from which such a conclusion was drawn, for he knew nothing of chronology, history, sacred or profane, nor of the principles of Bible exegesis. Indeed, his stock of information was never very extensive, but the lectures "sounded" well, the mathematical calculations seemed to be figured up right, and the fervor and confidence with which all were challenged, on pain of the most fearful consequences, to accept the whole as truth, completely captivated his feelings. His sincerity and conscientiousness none doubted. All his worldly prospects and possessions were sacrificed on the altar of his new belief; the little church with which he had walked in fellowship, he left, "shaking off the dust of his feet against it," because the light he sought to shed on the benighted minds of pastor and flock was not received; his children were taken from school, all business matters settled; and he waited, without a doubt to cloud his mind, for the fulfillment of his expectations at the time appointed.

"Forty-three" glided by, however, as if no such man as William Miller had calculated the symbols of Daniel and John. But then the "Jewish forty"-three, it was announced, would justify the theory. That passed. The "tenth day of the seventh month" was soon discovered to be the true time. When that, too, slipped by, the poor man was in a chaos of prophetic and doctrinal speculation. Not that he thought any more highly of the cooler judgment of the brethren, whom he had denounced for their dullness and hardness of heart for not believing in the period set by his fallible guides, or that he had any less complacent idea of his own superior piety and biblical wisdom—not he. But then, in order to adjust the theory to the passing of the time, new opinions were constantly started; gourds, which came up in a night to perish in a night, and all the old doctrines in which his faith had been nurtured, in the wild excitements of the hour were being overturned, till he had little in common with his previous theological faith. However, his ingenuity did not forsake him, and he settled down upon this device, that Mr. Miller's calculations were true; the end had come, but in a different way; the mistake had been in the "manner" of the event, and not in the time; the six thousand years, supposed to be allotted to our globe in its present state, had passed, and the great Sabbath of rest had come. In accordance with this belief, he now strictly rested from all labor, deeming it wrong to do any thing for the support of his family, or for the spiritual good of others, albeit he still had to eat, and his wife do the cooking, and wherever he went he was ready to argue for the truth's sake. In this state of idle, morbid, talkative "waiting," he embraced a thousand vagaries—among the least harmful of which was, perhaps, when he became a non-resistant.

With such a life, his little farm in Vermont soon melted away, and without money or business his family were in suffering circumstances. One day, while in this plight, as he was wandering aimlessly about, he chanced to stop before a recruiting office. While listening to the shrill notes of the fife and the roll of the drum, he "had an impression," to use his own language, that it was his duty to enlist. Now, impressions had been, during the recent excitements, like a divine law to him; for, supposing himself to be of a class specially favored of God with knowledge of the scriptures, and of the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, as was his custom, he did not stop to confer with flesh and blood, but put his name down on the roll. Quickly, however, he awoke to the incongruity of the step,—he, a peace man, a Second Adventist, one who believed that the kingdoms of this world were wholly of Satan, that it was contamination to have any thing to do with human government, and sinful even for a member of the "Fifth Monarchy" to cast a vote under the "Fourth,"—he, a soldier by his own voluntary action, and that too in a war against Mexico,—a war too which Mr. Miller was teaching to be the commencement of the great battle of Armageddon! But there was no retreat; and the first his anxious family knew of his whereabouts he was on his way to the field of strife. Without seeming to realize his inconsistency, while yet drawing pay as a soldier, he prayed that God would keep him from actual blood-shedding, and believed that his prayer would be answered. His expectations were realized. At the battle of Buena Vista, when his regiment was ordered to charge, the spirit of fight overcame all other considerations, and he rushed with the rest, shouting to the conflict. But suddenly, remembering his principles and prayers, he paused, astounded at his own conduct. Just then an officer rode up from the front, holding in his hand a disabled gun. Seeing the hesitating private, he said,—

"Here, Dearborn, take this," handing him the injured weapon, "and let me have yours, and you may go back and help at the camp."

As his new sphere was congenial, he made himself eminently useful in dealing out their rations to the soldiers, and guarding them from surprise by the enemy. He had a quick eye and active temperament, and was constantly on the alert. The tent from which the food was dispensed was on a slight eminence, surmounted by a flag. Santa Anna's artillery, drawn by oxen, would move round the hill, getting the range, but just as the firing was to be done, the vigilant Yankee would give the word to the men, and they would vanish from harm's way. By this course he saved many valuable lives. From this service he was transferred to the hospital, and was so tender and efficient as a nurse, that he was continued in this vocation. His pay now was quite respectable; and when discharged at the end of the war, he went home with a nice little sum, conscious too of having been useful in the army. His non-combative sentiments had also been untouched, for he had not fired a gun at his country's foes during his absence.

He returned to tarry but a short time among the scenes of the past. Although still clinging to certain features of his prophetic dogmas, he was disposed so to plan for the future as to seek to invest his money in some permanently remunerative way. For this purpose he turned his thoughts towards the "great West." Besides, the changes, disappointments, and poverty-pinchings of the family, had seriously affected the health of the wife. Isolation from cherished religious privileges, the violent sundering of dear and sacred ties binding her to the people of God, while this was only in keeping with the husband's rougher, more controversial nature, her loving, sensitive spirit was well nigh crushed in the process. Mr. Dearborn was filled with concern when he folded the shadowy form of his wife to his heart. He deeply loved her, and, hoping that new scenes and a Western climate might save her from the destroyer, he emigrated at once, making one or two temporary locations, then selling out and going further into the unsettled woods.

It was while on their way out that the young man, to whom their daughter was now engaged, made their acquaintance, and joined his fortunes with theirs. It happened under circumstances of great trial to them, and his presence and aid were peculiarly acceptable, indeed, indispensable. With untiring zeal he devoted himself to their comfort, and whether on the long journey in the emigrant wagon, or in the toils incident to making a new home, he was like a son and brother.

What the father's feelings were as he saw the affection that was springing up between those two young hearts, it is easy to imagine. And when, one day, as they were putting up rail fence, the young man, after a deal of hemming and throat-clearing, asked for the willing hand of the girl, the father for a moment was dumb with astonishment, then exclaimed, "What! talk of marrying, when I have often shown you that time can last at most only a few weeks or months longer!"

"I don't see why father must make every body go by his notions," said the daughter that evening, weeping the while.

"Annie!" replied the mother, "if there ever was a good man in the world, your father is one."

"Yes, I know that, mother," returned the child, "but I'd like to know what there is wrong in getting married. George read to me this very day where the apostle says, 'Marriage is honorable in all.'"

"Yes, but, dear, your father says that that was not meant for these last days."

"Then why didn't Paul say so, mother?"

"Well, dear, I don't see this matter just as your father does. But let us be patient, and not cross him, and if he is in the wrong, he is such a good man I have no doubt he will be set right by and by."

It must be confessed, however, that the prospect looked rather gloomy at times to the lover and his chosen. But, like Jacob, he would serve seven, or twice seven, if he might succeed at last. To this end labor, money, every thing was devoted, till at length the old man leaned on him, and could not do without him. Meanwhile, Time—that silent exploder of shallow theories—had set aside many favorite ones of this warrior-adventist, while the mother, true to the intuitive kindness and good sense of her sex, lost no opportunities of advancing, in her own gentle, admirable way, the claims of the persevering suitor, till finally consent was granted, and the wedding-day set, as we have seen.

"We came here," said the mother, "because of my health, hoping that the climate might do for me what medicine could not. I now see it was too late. But for my husband and George's sake, who have sacrificed so much on my account, I hope this last settlement may prove productive some day. They have secured a good tract of land, that must be valuable by and by; but we are 'land-poor' now all our money is gone. Another season, however, we hope our crops will bring us something more than the necessaries of life. George is like a child to me; and what is more, he is a Christian. Annie and he are tenderly attached, and despite our present poverty, I shall rejoice in knowing that they are united before I am called away."

But the few friends that had been invited had come in; the simple words that make two inseparably one, were uttered; and then, as the table was being laid, bride and bridegroom poured forth their joy in Christian song. Strangely touching was it here on the lone prairie to listen to wedded love thus expressed. Very happy were they, and comely too, in the freshness and vigor of their youth. And, as we gathered around the well-spread board, the sick mother, taking once more her place at the head of the table, her face beaming the peace she felt, there was a glow at my heart, such as I never experienced before as guest at a marriage feast.

Their happiness was peculiarly artless and childlike; and the hymns they sang, what strange interpreters of that happiness! There was only one hymn-book in the house, and that belonged to the father, and was devoted to the idea that molded his thoughts. But what cared they, if the sentiment was of unearthly things,—if it only helped them warble their bird-like joyfulness? With loving looks, and smiling faces, absorbed in thoughts of each other, they struck up,—

"The chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll in fire,
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire;
So, self-moving he rides on his pathway of cloud,
And the heavens with the burden of Godhead are bowed.

"The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set,
Where the white arrayed throngs, and the elders are met;
From the east, from the west, from the south, from the north,
All the vast generations of men are come forth!"

Then, more plaintively, they sang,—

"Son of God, thy people's shield;
Must we still thine absence mourn?
Let thy promise be fulfilled;
Thou hast said, I will return.

"As a woman counts the days
Till her absent lord she see,—
Mourns and watches, weeps and prays,
So thy church will weep for thee!"

As the father led my horse out for me to mount, he said, "We thank you for coming." Then, as I was gathering up the reins, "I suppose you have never noticed what the Bible says about the railroad cars being a sign of the times? Our ministers are dreadfully in the dark about the day we live in!"

"Ah! is it possible that the cars are predicted; what prophecy is that?"

"In Nahum, second chapter, third and fourth verses," he answered, taking out his well-thumbed pocket Bible, and proceeding to expound, with much inward comfort, as he read,—

"'The chariots,' that's the cars, 'shall be with flaming torches,'—that describes them as they appear at night; 'the chariots shall rage in the streets,'—the tracks are laid right in the street; 'they shall jostle one against another in the broad ways,'—how they strike together when they are about to stop, or to start again, being hitched one to the other; 'they shall seem like torches,'—in the night; 'they shall run like the lightnings,'—going at the rate of twenty or more miles an hour; 'he shall recount his worthies,'—that means the conductor taking the tickets, and making sure that all have paid their fare; 'they shall stumble in their walk,'—none who have rode in the cars have failed to see and experience how difficult it is to go about when the train is in motion. And this," he added, triumphantly, "is to be fulfilled,—when? 'In the day of his preparation,'—that is, when God is preparing to judge the world."

"But are you sure," said I, "that the prophet meant to paint the steam-cars of our day?"

"Certainly; doesn't he say—"

"How, then, does it happen that he announces that this prophecy relates to the city of Nineveh, which has been destroyed thousands of years? as in the first verse, he calls it 'The burden of Nineveh.' And how is it that these 'chariots,' or cars, as you term them, he describes as having wheels, and being drawn by horses, driven by the whip, as in the third chapter, second verse? 'The noise of a whip, and the noise of the rattling of wheels, and of the prancing horses, and of the jumping chariots.'"

He stood in silence a moment, then said, "I don't know. I haven't had any light on that yet."

"Well," said I, "when you get the light, don't hide it under a bushel, but be sure and let the clergy have the benefit of it!" And consenting, at his request, to preach at his house in a fortnight, I rode on.

"Well, elder," said my Methodist friend, as I alighted at his door on my return, "not a limb broken, eh? But you had to swim the river! Guess you didn't get much of a fee though, did you?"

"Never better paid in my life,—what's my bill for Black Hawk?"

"Well, seeing you feel so 'rich,' I think I shan't charge you any thing this time. All is, I'm glad you've got back safe and sound."

THE LITTLE MOUND IN THE WEST.

AFAR out West, a thousand miles,
I own a spot of ground,
On which, last year, with trembling hands,
I raised a little mound.

A robin, with her fledgeling brood,
Was singing then hard by:
That robin, with her fledgeling brood,
Was happier far than I.

The leaves have fallen on that mound,
The snows have bound it fast,
And, howling through the trees o'erhead,
Have gusts of winter passed.

But now the Winter's icy bands
Are severed by the Spring,
And round that lonely mound again
The robins come to sing.

How has the little tenant passed
The autumn there alone?—
The long, cold, dismal winter nights
That since have come and gone.

He could not bear to leave me once,
Not even for a day;
He grieved and pined in loneliness
Whene'er I was away.

But now he lies untended there,
Nor murmurs from his bed;
And down in mold and darkness keeps
The watches of the dead.

We draped him for his final rest,
'Mid sobs, and tears, and sighs;
We combed his hair, and tenderly
We closed his precious eyes.

Do rose and violet keep their place
Through all these wasting hours?
And does his little moldering hand
Still clasp its withered flowers?

With such endearing cares we sought
The cruel grave to cheat
Of half its horrors; even his toys
Were buried at his feet.

How vain the thought to placate Death
With cheerful funeral rite!
I have a funeral in my heart;
I bury him each night.

The grief each idle passer-by
Prejudged would soon depart,
Is gnawing deep and deeper still
Into my withered heart.

And in my agony, I turn
To that far spot of ground,
Where all my earthly hopes lie dead,
Within the little mound.

A WALK WITH A STRANGER.

A WESTERN REMINISCENCE.