Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

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."