Our little Mary was dying. The
film had gathered over those deep blue orbs, and her
emaciated form lay white as polished marble stretched
out on her little cradle, around which were gathered
sympathizing friends, watching the feeble lamp of
life as it burned flickering in its socket. The
grandmother and aunt had been summoned from an adjoining
village, where they had gone upon a visit the previous
morning; and Emma, a sweet cousin not two years old,
stood wondering why little Mary did not smile upon
her, as she usually did, for she had never looked
upon death.
Mary had ever been a fragile child.
But her mother had clung to her with all the devotion
of a mother’s love. Anxiously did she watch
that little pale form, pressing it to her heart, and
gazing upon it with fond maternal pride, day by day,
and night after night, unmindful of food or sleep,
so that she might relieve the suffering of her precious
babe; and ever would she say it will soon be better.
One week succeeded another, and still there was no
change for the better. But oh, how deep was the
fountain of that mother’s love, and the feeble
wailing of that dear infant moved all its secret springs.
A physician was consulted, who spoke
hopefully, but nothing seemed to help her.
Through the summer months, the salubrity
of the air revived her some, and the mother would
wander with her round the garden, placing the sweetest
flowers in her hand, or sitting beneath the shade of
trees, she would listen for hours to the murmur of
the summer breeze that sighed among the branches,
or the humming of the bee as it sipped the sweets
from surrounding flowers, delighted that her darling
Mary might thus inhale the pure breath of heaven.
And when those large, soul lit orbs were closed in
sweet slumber, and the little fragile form could rest
for a short time, the mother would lift her heart to
God in gratitude and thanksgiving.
Summer passed with its weary watching,
and her disease assumed a more deffinite appearance,
and the mother felt that Mary must die.
’Twas early autumn; the mother
purchased some flannel and prepared a robe for her
darling, with a mother’s pride, believing that
that would be beneficial to her. It was late
in the evening when the task was completed, and a
neat white apron was hung upon the nail over it, and
the impatient mother waited the approach of day that
she might place it upon her little form. O how
strongly did the bright red robe contrast with the
lily whiteness of that lovely babe. The tiny hands,
as they peeped from beneath their long sleeves, looked
like two white lilies intermingled with the thick
clustering blossoms of the running rose. The
mother looked upon her with pleasure as she saw her
so comfortably clad, and hoped the increased warmth
would improve her health, but when she bore her to
her father, saying, “here is our doll;”
he turned away his dewy eyes, for he saw that she was
fading away from earth.
“O Albert,” said Carrie,
“does she not look now as though she might live?”
He could not bear to crush the last
hope in the heart of his young wife, and remained
silent.
She continued,
“No one gives me any encouragement,
but I do feel more hopeful about her this morning,
for she rested better through the night than she has
done for several nights.”
While she was yet speaking, a piercing
shriek broke from the lips of the child, every feature
expressed extreme agony, and the last ray of hope
in the heart of that young mother went out forever.
From that time, her precious one failed
fast. Vomiting succeeded, and the little fountain
of strength was ebbing fast away. Little did
the poor mother think, when she arrayed her little
infant in her comfortable flannel robe, it would be
the last time she would be dressed till she was wrapped
in her shroud for the silent grave.
During the night her feeble frame
was attacked by severe spasms, and shriek after shriek
filled the heart of the mother with unutterable anguish.
When that subsided she lay cold and pulseless, with
the damp dews of death upon her marble forehead.
Little hope was entertained of her surviving till
morning. But the grim messenger delayed his work,
and morning again awoke all nature to life and beauty.
It was a cool day, and the running
rose bush that clambered over the door, was laden
with withered flowers that had lived their little day
and faded before the early autumn winds. Many
a hardier flower was blooming brightly, and lifting
their heads seemingly in proud defiance of the chilling
winds that were blowing round them. One little
bud enveloped in its casing of green that hung waving
over the door, was perishing in its beauty, even like
the little cradled innocent, that even then was passing
away before the icy breath of the dark plumed angel.
A hasty despatch was sent for the maternal grandmother
and aunt, and the grandmother upon the father’s
side was present, and together we watched the failing
breath of the dying child. Six brief months only
had she lingered upon earth, and now she was to depart
forever. Many, as they sat in that chamber of
death, felt how mysterious are the Providences
of God. The dried and the withered leaf, the
full blown flower, and the opening bud were there,
and all were spared, while the youngest one of the
group was passing away and teaching the one great
lesson, “All flesh is grass, and the goodliness
thereof as the flower of the field.”
Little Emma stood gazing upon her
with an expression of wonder, and when told little
Mary would soon be an angel, she raised her blue eyes
and smilingly said, “O Emma will have an angel
cousin;” thus teaching a lesson of faith and
trust.
When the shadows of evening gathered
around us, the doctor came in and was surprised to
find her still living. As she had not swallowed
during the day, he was surprised upon applying a sponge
wet in water to her lips to find that she swallowed
rather eagerly and without any difficulty until she
had taken several drops. He told the mother she
had better prepare some warm milk and water, and drop
a little of it into her mouth as long as she continued
to swallow. Hope sprung up in her heart, perhaps
she might yet live, and quick as lightning the recollection
of many children who had been snatched from the very
jaws of death, passed through her memory. But
while she was making the preparation, the little bosom
heaved one gentle sigh, and we felt that Mary was
an angel. One glance, one wild scream, and the
mother fell almost fainting into the arms of her husband.
The crimson robe that was placed upon
her with so many hopes by the fond hands of a mother,
was removed by other hands, and the little body was
prepared for the tomb. The mother gazed upon her
with tearful eyes and an aching heart.
It was a mild, peaceful Sabbath day
when they bore her to the tomb. The mother placed
a robe of white flannel upon her, imprinting as she
did so, many kisses on the lily arms she had kissed
so many times in all their warmth of living loveliness,
when, with a smile upon her lips, and gladness in
her eye, she raised them to her mother’s lips
to receive the proffered tokens of affection.
And so they placed her in her coffin,
with a tiny rosebud in either hand (for she would
ever hold flowers longer than any thing else), to
wither in their beauty with her, the pale perishing
one. And the holy man read from the word of God
the impressive lesson, “Behold thou hast made
my days as a hand’s breadth, and my age is as
nothing before thee;” and offered up fervent
prayer in behalf of the afflicted mourners, and little
Mary was borne to the silent tomb.
O, who that listened to that gentle
autumn breeze that so softly sighed among the trees,
and fanned the flower that bent slightly before it,
but must feel that there is a God that orders the winds
and the sea, and rules over the destinies of men.
Sad were the hearts of the stricken
parents as they returned to their little cottage,
where everything reminded them of their dear lost
child.
Emma stood beside the vacant cradle,
and asked many questions about the departed cousin.
“Why did they take her from
her cradle and put her in that little box?”
But was ever comforted by calling her her angel cousin.
But time passed on, and other changes
came. They left their cottage home where this
great grief had rested upon them. Another darling
Mary was given them, and found a warm place in their
affections. The husband soon left his wife and
child, and sought to build up his fortune in a distant
land, while the wife and mother dedicates her time
to the care of the dearly loved treasure her heavenly
Father has committed to her trust.
One brief year sped rapidly away,
and winter again returned with his winds. It
was a wild night, the wintry winds howled fiercely
round the dwelling, and pelted the snow and sleet
furiously against the casement, when Mrs. Barlow,
after attending to those duties that make a New England
home so comfortable, dropped her crimson curtains,
and seating herself by a comfortable coal fire, commenced
preparing her little Emma for bed.
“Oh,” said she, “how
the wind blows, mamma; what do poor little children
do that have no home?”
Said her mother, “God tempers
the wind, my dear, to the shorn lamb.”
“Mamma, do you know I am going
to have a party and go to heaven and invite my angel
cousin?”
“Are you, indeed.”
“But mamma, it is time to say
our Father now,” and the happy mother listened
to her dear child as she clasped her hands and lisped
the Lord’s prayer, and the appropriate “now
I lay me,” after which she soon dropped into
a peaceful slumber.
Thus evening was spent after evening
with the mother and her dear child, happy in each
other’s love.
Winter passed, and genial spring came
forth in infantile beauty, unbending the streamlets
from their icy fetters, and swelling the buds upon
the trees, thus making her early preparation for future
beauty and usefulness.
Emma awoke early one Sabbath morning,
and leaving her little crib, nestled down beside her
mother. After laying quiet some time, she asked
suddenly,
“Is it Sunday, mamma?”
Being answered in the affirmative, she said,
“It would be a beautiful day
to die. Less die to-day, papa, mamma, and Emma,
and go to heaven, and get our golden harps; you have
a great one, you and papa, and Emma will have a little
one like my little angel cousin.”
A shade of sadness passed over the
mother’s face, but rested not upon it.
The form of her darling child was in her arms, her
downy cheek resting against her own, and the bright
blue eyes gazing earnestly into hers with a volume
of meaning in their azure depths.
“But you must get up now, for
it is a beautiful Sabbath day, and we shall go to
meeting to-day, and the minister will pray for us to
God. O how glad I am,” and the dear child
clapped her dimpled hands with delight.
And so they went to church Sabbath
after Sabbath, while Emma ever seemed to enjoy the
services, often making observations upon what she
heard. She inquired every day if it were Sunday;
and Saturday evenings her play things were all carefully
laid aside, and she expressed great sympathy for poor
little children that played upon that day.
The story of the cross would affect
her to tears, and yet she loved to dwell upon it,
and it was with great effort her attention could be
withdrawn from it.
One rosy twilight hour, when the departed
beams of the sun still lingered, tinging the curtains
of the west with those bright and gorgeous hues that
so frequently surround him at his setting. Emma
and her mother sat down to spend that happy hour together,
and gaze upon the scene.
Spring was rapidly advancing, and
the face of nature was lovely to the eye. The
half open buds upon the trees shed sweet perfume, and
birds carolled their evening songs on every spray.
But the things of earth, beautiful
though they were, could not satisfy the mind of the
child, and when the golden stars spangled the blue
canopy above, she talked of golden harps, of her angel
cousin, and the mysteries of that unseen world,
“Beyond planets, suns, and adamantine
spheres.”
Suddenly assuming a more thoughtful
expression, she said,
“O mamma, what would you do
if Emma should die? You would have to carry away
my crib and little chair, and put all my play things
away, and you would have no little Emma. O mamma,
how lonesome you would be;” and bursting into
a convulsive fit of sobbing she flung her arms around
her mother’s neck and wept upon her bosom.
Tears too, dimmed the mother’s eyes as she pressed
her fondly to her heart, and kissed away her tears,
while a painful thought went through her heart, “can
it be her conversation is prophetic?”
She soothed her troubled spirit, spoke
of the joys of heaven, and after listening to her
childish prayer, laid her in her little crib with
a sweet good night murmured in her ear. Returning
to her sitting room, long and sadly she reflected
upon the words of her darling child, and tried to
fathom their import, and earnestly did she pray that
night, “Our Father, prepare me for whatsoever
thou art preparing for me, and enable me ever to say,
‘thy will be done;’” and she retired
to rest with a subdued spirit, feeling an indefinable
presentiment of coming sorrow.
The glad light of morning in a measure
dissipated the shadows of the previous evening, and
the mother and daughter met with a pleasant greeting, the
little girl busied about her play, while her mother
attended to her domestic duties. They frequently
interchanged cheerful words. Emma would sometimes
personate a house-maid, and assist her mother in dusting
and arranging the furniture. But suddenly dropping
all, she stood by her side, and looking earnestly up
into her face, said,
“O mamma, you may have all my clothes next summer.”
“Why, Emma,” replied her mother, “you
will want them yourself.”
“O no, mamma, I shall not want
them; you may have my little brella, and all.”
The mother’s cheek blanched,
and a fearful pang again shot through her heart.
“O Emma, don’t talk so,
you will wear them all yourself.”
“O no, mamma, you may have them;”
and seating herself in her little chair, she sat long,
looking thoughtful and serious.
It was morning, bright beautiful morning.
The swelling buds had burst their confines, and the
apple, pear, peach, cherry, and plum trees that surrounded
the house, were thickly covered with sweet scented,
many colored blossoms, that gave promise of a rich
harvest of delicious fruit. The birds warbled
their matin songs in sweet melody; the honey
bees with drowsy hum, were sipping sweets to horde
their winter’s store; and every thing seemed
rejoicing in the light of that glad morning.
Even Crib, the great house dog, lay sunning himself
on the door step with a satisfied look, snapping at
the flies that buzzed around him.
But Emma could not arise to look out
upon the joyful face of nature. She lay pale
and languid upon the bed, telling her mother she was
too sick to get up, that she could stay alone while
she ironed her clothes which she had starched the
night before: but wished her to shut the door
to keep out the light and noise.
The mother pursued her task with a
sad heart, but often would she unclose the door and
look in upon the pale child, and show her some article
of dress she had been preparing for her. She would
look up with a smile and say,
“O good mamma, how nice they
look;” then closing her eyes drop into a deep,
heavy sleep.
She grew rapidly worse, and the doctor
who was called to visit her, pronounced it scarlet
fever, that fearful malady among children, but thought
her symptoms favorable.
Every attention was bestowed upon
her that affection could give; but the disease rapidly
increased.
The fire of a terrible fever was raging
in her veins, and drying up the fountain of her young
life. In the wildness of delirium she would start
suddenly from the arms of her mother, and pierce her
heart by begging to be carried to her own dear mother.
The fifth day of her disease it assumed
a more alarming appearance, her extremities becoming
cold, and a deathlike palor overspreading her
countenance, accompanied by a stupid, dozing state.
While laying thus, she started up, exclaiming,
“Mamma, if I die, shall I go heaven?”
“O, yes, my dear,” said her mother.
“Papa said. I should.”
Then falling into a deep stupor, she
noticed nothing for about two hours, when looking
up bright and wishfully, turning her body towards
her mother, she said, earnestly,
“Pray.”
Her mother commenced the sweet prayer, so familiar
to her,
“Now, I lay me.”
She joined her trembling voice with
hers, and lisped again the words she had loved so
well. She appeared exhausted with the effort,
and turning away her little head, and closing her weary
eyes, lay apparently asleep about five minutes, when
arousing herself, with a sweet expression of countenance,
she gently murmured,
“Amen.”
“O,” said the mother, “perhaps that
is Emma’s last prayer.”
“It may be,” said the
grandmother; “and how vividly we should remember
it, if it should be.”
Even so that was the last
note of praise that fell from those infant lips upon
earth. But often does it start upon memory’s
ear, during the silence of the midnight hour, and
seem like gentle whisperings from the spirit land,
and bring back recollections at once painful and pleasant
to the soul.
She slept till the twilight hour,
when she wished her mother to carry her to the window.
Oh, happily were those hours usually spent, when the
duties of the day had all been performed, and the quiet
shades of evening gathered round their dwelling.
Often was their talk of heaven. O, they were
happy hours! but they flew by upon golden wings, leaving
their deep impress on that fond mother’s heart.
As she sat with her that evening,
looking upon the varied prospect that was spread out
before them, no word passed her lips. Her mother
pointed to the green grass, the trees covered with
clustering blossoms, the river, hurrying on to join
old Ocean, reflecting the mild radiance of the setting
sun on its placid surface; and to the busy hum of
life, as people hurried to and fro in the village that
lay distinctly spread out before them; but nothing
could elicit a word from her, till turning her head
wearily, and closing her eyes for the last time upon
the beautiful world, with its deep blue sky, and its
rich sunset dyes, she said,
“O, mamma, lay me in my little
bed;” and after noticing apparently every object
in the room, she closed her eyes and lay in a deep
stupor for four successive days and nights. Her
face was pale as marble, and incoherent words escaped
her lips. Sometimes she would murmur,
“Oh, carry me home carry
me home.” When she revived from the stupor,
at times it was agonizing to witness her suffering.
But no word escaped her lips.
Everything that medical aid could
do was done, and every attention was paid to the suffering
child by her parents and friends, and every effort
used to stay the disease. But “he who seeth
not as man seeth,” willed it otherwise, and
all proved unavailing. On the fifteenth day the
rash came on again; the throat swelled badly, and the
sufferings of the dear little one were extreme.
Even then, it was evident she knew her friends, and
many were the tokens of affection bestowed upon them
as they watched beside her couch, and ministered to
her necessities.
Often would she reach up her little
emaciated hands, and placing them upon her mother’s
cheeks, press them tenderly. It seemed to soothe
her, when her mother would lay her head upon her pillow
beside her, and take her little wasted hand in hers.
And when she sang to her, in a low, trembling voice,
her little favorite hymn,
“There is a happy land, far; far away,”
she lay quiet, and seemed listening
with much attention, raising one little hand three
times, then laying it fondly round her mother’s
neck. Long, during that day, did the grief-stricken
mother breathe sad, melancholy music into the ears
of her dying child.
Towards evening that restless state,
so common in cholera infantum, came on, accompanied
at every breath by a groan, which the doctor said
must soon wear her out.
He gave her an opiate, hoping to relieve
the distress.
Towards midnight she dropped into
a little slumber, and the mother, weary with watching,
retired, leaving the father and a sister, to take
care of her.
It was Sabbath morning; the gray dawn
was just streaking the east with the earliest beams
of day, when the father, who sat a little distance
from his child, thought he saw her gasp for breath.
He sprang to her side, and saw too truly, that that
pale visitant from the spirit land, that comes to
us but once, was dealing with his child. The mother
and grandmother, who had watched over her so unweariedly,
soon reached the bed; but the brittle thread of life
was snapped, and the pure spirit had passed away,
with the pale messenger, to the spirit land. There
were no loud lamentations. The mother pressed
her cheeks between her hands, exclaiming,
“Oh, Emma.”
Then taking her little pulseless hand
in her own, seated herself beside her on the bed,
calm and tearless.
The father, with his face buried in
his hands, sat motionless; but no murmur escaped his
lips. He had learned submission to the divine
will, and was comforted in his hour of need.
And brighter, and brighter grew the
beams of that holy Sabbath day. That day the
dear child had loved so well. She had loved to
enter the earthly temple, and join in the hymns of
thanksgiving and praise that arose, like sweet incense,
upon their sacred altars. And now, with the early
dawning of that sacred day, she had passed forever
from earth, to join the pure throng of worshippers
before the throne of God. The smile of heaven
was upon her face, as though the light of the happy
spirit still irradiated it.
Loving hands placed her gently in
the shroud and prepared her for the tomb.
As that quiet twilight hour came on,
who can picture the agony of the bereaved mother’s
heart? She stole softly into the chamber of death,
and taking the little cold waxen hand in hers, bent
fondly over, and kissed the marble forehead.
It was their favorite hour the one they
ever spent together, and those blue eyes were ever
then fixed upon her, as she read the word of God,
repeated infantile hymns, or murmured the evening
prayer. But now those dear eyes were forever shut
on earth, but open to the more exalted beauties of
heaven.
As she recalled the past, in that
solemn place, she weighed well her conduct towards
her child, and asked herself if there had been aught
to tarnish the purity of that spirit that had just
entered the portals of heaven; and earnestly did she
beseech her Heavenly Father to forgive all that was
amiss, and cleanse her from all sin, that she might
be prepared for a reunion in a better world.
It was autumn, when little Mary was
placed in the tomb, and all things spoke of death
and decay. It was now the last days of spring,
when the trees had put on their robes of deeper green,
and all nature spoke of a resurrection from the dead,
when her little coffin was taken from the tomb and
placed in the hearse, to be buried in the same grave
with her cousin Emma. Emma lay beautiful in death,
looking almost like a thing of life, with a smile
still lingering upon her lips, while fresh half-blown
flowers were placed in her icy fingers, and strewed
around the coffin, soon to wither and fade, with that
frail child of clay. Mary had decayed with the
pure buds she held in her hands, and “dust thou
art and unto dust thou must return,” was legibly
written on both.
The same mourning circle convened,
and bore their loved ones to the place of graves.
The sisters stood side by side, as the coffins were
let down into the earth, and mingled their tears together.
It was a melancholy sight, and spoke loudly of the
uncertainty of human life.
The man of hoary hairs stood over
the graves of the tender infant, and felt sensibly,
that while the “young may die, the old must die.”
The parents cast a long lingering
look into the greedy grave that was forever to hide
their treasure from their sight, then turned sadly
away to walk again the pathway of human life, and receive
the portion their heavenly Father may see fit to meet
out to them.
Sweet is their place of rest.
A weeping willow droops over their grave, and the
flowers of summer shed their perfume and scatter their
leaves around. Night winds sigh a mournful requiem,
and gentle zephyrs fan the leaves of the weeping
willow, and murmur among its branches.. Two white
marble slabs stand at the head of the little heaped
up mound, and point to the traveller’s eye the
place where rest the remains of the angel cousins.