Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad Part 47

I will tell you.

There was a poor woman whose husband had been killed in Mexico. She lived in one small room in a secluded part of the city, and by means of her needle, and such a.s.sistance as was given to her daughter, who diligently walked the streets, selling apples, she managed to live in a style which she denominated "comfortable." Thus, for upwards of one year, she toiled and lived, and was thankful for all her many blessings.

But sickness came; not severe, but of that kind that bears its victim along slowly to rest. She was unable to do much. She did not wish to do much; but she sat day by day, yea, night by night often, and diligently pursued the avocation that brought her daily bread.

Weeks pa.s.sed, and yet she was ill. One morning, she called her daughter to her side, and, taking her hand in her own, said:

"Little Nelly, 't is Independence day, to-day. You heard the guns fire, and the bells ring, and the shouts of the happy children, this morning, before you arose. I watched you as you lay listening to all these, and I asked myself, Will my little Nelly be happy? and I thought I heard my mother's voice;--she died long, long ago, but I thought I heard her voice right at my side, saying, 'We shall all be happy soon;' and I wept, for I could not help it.

"But I've called you now, Nelly, to tell you that I'm much better this morning, and that, if you can get twenty-five cents to-day, we will have a happy time to-night."

Little Nelly looked happy for a moment, but soon a shadow came over her face; for she could not comprehend the meaning of her mother when she said she was "better," for she looked more feeble than she had ever seen her since the news of how her father was shot in the face at Monterey was told her.

But she tried to be cheerful. She tried to smile, but, O, it was very hard; and she got her mother's breakfast, and, having cleared the things away, took her little basket, and her mother's purse, and went out.

It was, indeed, a happy day without. There was joy depicted on every countenance, and the general happiness infused some of its spirit into the heart of our little trader. She seemed almost lost in the great crowd; and there were so many dealers about, and so many that presented greater attractions in the display of their stock, that few bought of little Nelly.

It was late in the afternoon, and she had sold but a little, when she encountered a young lady gayly dressed, in whose hand was prominently displayed a bead purse, through the interstices of which the gold and silver glistened.

Nelly held out her humble purse, in which no beads were wrought, through which no coin glistened,--she held it up, and ventured to ask, in pleasant tones, a few pennies of the lady. But not a penny for little Nelly. Not even a look recognized her appeal, but costly, flowing robes rushed by, and nearly prostrated her; they did force her from the sidewalk into the gutter.

Go on, ye proud and selfish one! Go, bend the knee to Fas.h.i.+on's altar, and ask a blessing of its presiding spirit! Bestow no pitying glance on honest poverty; no helping hand to the weak and falling!

There is a law which G.o.d hath written on all his works, proclaiming justice, and giving unto all as they shall ask of him. Pa.s.s on, and heed not that little praying hand; but remember you cannot do so without asking of that law its just requital.

Nelly walked on. She mingled again with the great ma.s.s, and twilight came. It was then that she sat down, as I have before stated, to count her money. She had but thirteen cents. All day she had sought to dispose of her stock, that she might carry to her mother the sum named, with which to have a happy time at home. And now the day had gone; the night was drawing its great shadowy cloak about the earth, and Nelly had but about one half of the required sum. What should she do?

It was at this moment I met her. I stooped down, and she told me all her story;--told me all her sorrow,--a great sorrow for a little breast like hers. I made up the trifling amount, and, taking her by the hand, we went together towards her home.

Reaching the house, we entered, and were met on the stairs by an old lady, who whispered in my ear, "Walk softly." I suspected in a moment the reason why she asked me thus to walk. She then led the way. She tried to keep back the little girl, but she could not. She hurried up the stairs, and through a long, dark entry, to a door, which she quickly opened.

Nelly sprang to the bed on which lay her mother. I heard a sigh-a sob. It was from the child. The mother spoke in a tone so joyous that I was at first surprised to hear it from one who, it was supposed, was near her end. But I soon found it was no matter of surprise.

How clear and fair was that face! How pleading and eloquent those eyes, as they turned, in all their full-orbed brightness, upon me, as I approached the bedside of the mother of Nelly! There were needed no words to convey to my mind the thoughts that dwelt within that soul, whose strength seemed to increase as that of the body diminished.

With one of her pale hands she took mine; with the other, that of her daughter.

"Blessings on you both!" she said. "Nelly, my dear Nelly, my faithful, loving Nelly, I am much better than I was; I shall soon be well, and what a happy time we will have to-night! I hear that voice again to-night, Nelly. Don't you hear it? It says, 'We shall all be happy soon.' I see a bright star above your head, my child; and now I see my mother. She is all bright and radiant, and there is a beauty around her that I cannot describe. Nelly, I am better. Why, I feel quite well."

She sprang forward, and, with her hands yet clasping Nelly's and my own, she stretched her arms upward. There was a bright glow of indescribable joy upon her features. She spoke calmly, sweetly spoke. "We shall all be happy soon-happy soon-happy-" then fell back on the pillow, and moved no more-spoke not again.

She was indeed happy. But, Nelly-she was sad. For a long time she kept her hand in that of her mother. She at length removed it, and fell upon the floor, beneath the weight of her new sorrow. Yet it was but for a moment. Suddenly she sprang up, as if imbued with angelic hope and peace. We were surprised to see the change, and to behold her face beam with so much joy, and hear her voice lose its sadness. We looked forth with that inner sight which, on such occasions, seems quickened to our sense, and could see that mother, and that mother's mother, bending over that child, and raising her up to strength and hope, and a living peace and joy.

Nelly's little purse lay on the floor, where she had dropped it when she came in. The old nurse picked it up, and laid it on a stand beside the bed. A tear stole out from beneath the eyelids of the child as she beheld it, and thought how all day she had worked and walked to get the little sum with which her mother and she were to be made happy on that Independence night. I called her to me. We sat down and talked over the past, the present and the future, and I was astonished to hear the language which her pure and gentle, patient soul poured forth.

"Well, sir," she said, "we are happy to-night, though you think, perhaps, there is greater cause for sorrow. But mother has gone from all these toiling scenes. She will work no more all the long day, and the night, to earn a s.h.i.+lling, with which to buy our daily bread. She has gone where they have food that we know not of; and she's happy to-night, and, sir, we shall all be happy soon. We shall all go up there to live amid realities. These are but shadows here of those great, real things that exist there; and I sometimes think, when sitting amid these shadows, that it will be a happy time when we leave them, and walk amid more substantial things."

Thus she talked for some time.

Having rendered such a.s.sistance as I could, I left. The next day there was a funeral, and little Nelly was what they called "the chief mourner;" yet it seemed a very inappropriate name for one whose sorrow was so cheerful. There were but few of us who followed; and, when we reached the grave, and the face of the earthly form was exposed to the sunlight for the last time, little Nelly sung the following lines, which I had hastily penned for the occasion:

WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON.

Dry our tears and wipe our eyes!

Angel friends beyond the skies Open wide heaven's s.h.i.+ning portal, Welcome us to joys immortal.

Fear not, weep not, ours the boon; We shall all be happy soon!

Hark! a voice is whispering near us; 'T is an angel-voice to cheer us; It entreats us not to weep, Fresh and green our souls to keep; And it sings, in cheerful tune, We shall all be happy soon.

Thus through life, though grief and care May be given us to bear, Though all dense and dark the cloud That our weary forms enshroud, Night will pa.s.s, and come the noon, We shall all be happy soon.

When the last line of each verse was sung, it was no fancy thought in us, in Nelly more than all others, that suggested the union of other voices with our own; neither was it an illusion that pictured a great thing with harps, repeating the words, "We shall all be happy soon."

The s.e.xton even, he who was so used to grave-yard scenes, was doubly interested; and, when the last look was taken, and Nelly seemed to look less in the dark grave and more up to the bright sky above her than those in her situation usually do, I saw him watch her, and a tear trickled down his wrinkled face.

As we turned to leave, I asked him why he wept. His features brightened up. "For joy, for joy," said he. "I have put away the dead here for forty long years; but I never beheld so happy a burial as this. It seems as though the angels were with that child. She looks so heavenly."

Perhaps they were. And why say "perhaps"? Do we not know they are ever round us, and very near to such a one as Nelly, at such a time?

REUNION.

WHEN we muse o'er days departed, Lights that shone but s.h.i.+ne no more, Friends of ours who long since started O'er the sea without a sh.o.r.e; Journeying on and journeying ever, Their freed spirits wing their flight, Ceasing in their progress never Towards the fountain-head of light; Oft we wish that they were near us,-- We might see the friends we love,-- Then there come these words to cheer us, "Ye shall meet them all above."

When the sun's first ray approacheth, Ushering in the noonday light; When the noise of day encroacheth On the silence of the night; When the dreams depart that blest us In the hours forever fled,-- In which friends long gone carest us, Friends we number with the dead,-- Comes this thought, Ye ne'er shall hear them, Ne'er shall see the friends ye love; Voices say, "Ye shall be near them, With them in the world above."

When within the grave's enclosure Ye do drop the silent tear, Tremble not at its disclosure, Myriad spirits hover near.

Hark! they whisper, do ye hear not, Mingling with your rising sighs, Words that bid you hope, and fear not, Angel-voices from the skies?

And as dust to dust returneth,-- That which held the gem you love,-- Thine afflicted spirit learneth It will meet that gem above.

Thus whene'er a friend departeth In my soul I know 't is right; And, although the warm tear starteth, As he pa.s.ses from my sight, I do know that him I cherish Here on earth shall never die; That, though all things else shall perish, He shall live and reign on high.

And, that when a few hours more Shall have pa.s.sed, then those I love, Who have journeyed on before, I shall meet and greet above.