Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland

by Abigail Stanley Hanna

And the dear children, could they listen to its glad strain? O, no; they had seen death cast his marble paleness upon their mother's face; had felt the icy coldness of her pulseness limbs; had called her by the endearing name of mother, and her pale lips answered not, and they had retired with eyes red with weeping; they as yet knew nothing of the extent of their bereavement. The husband, too, had lost the companion of his youth, the mother of his children, and although he possessed like precious faith with her, and kissed the rod with pious resignation; still they were a grief-stricken household, and presented a striking contrast to the gay group that were dancing thoughtlessly away the hours of that solemn night, while the recording angel was taking note of all that was passing beneath his all-seeing eye, in that book that shall be opened when we shall all stand before God, to be judged according to the deeds done in the body.

The music floated on and reached the ear of a poor maniac as he sat by his comfortable fire, listening to the monotonous roar of the distant water fall, and the howling of the wintry winds, as it came surging on, waving the leafless tree and pelting the falling rain against the windows.

"Hark!" said he, springing up, "the bees are swarming; I shall be stung to death," and out he rushed, with a brighter fire in his eye and a more intense one in his brain. Descending the hill, he watched the sylph like forms as they floated on in the mazy dance, declaring the bees were in terrible commotion, and he should be stung to death. With difficulty he was prevailed upon to return to his house, and ever and anon, as the sound of the music reached his ear, he would start and affirm that the bees surely were swarming.

Such is man, the noblest work of God, when bereft of reason to guide and direct him.

Still farther on were young parents keeping anxious watch over a sick infant, whose feeble thread of life seemed trembling upon a very hair. The doctor had said there was no hope; kind, sympathizing friends, as they looked on the sufferings of the dear babe with tearful eyes, had said, there is no hope; and the agonized hearts of the parents echoed back, no hope. But still they did hope. The breath came heavily from the heaving chest, and the blue orbs looked dimly from their half closed lids, while the little sufferer, with burning hand and parched lip, seemed struggling for that life that it had enjoyed but for so brief a space. The parents were young in years and unacquainted with sorrow, and very dear to their loving hearts was the sick infant. They felt they could not part with the dear one. Carefully they nursed the flickering lamp of life: through that dreary winter night, lest some ruder blast should extinguish it forever. Wished they to join the thoughtless throng in the tinselled hall of fashion? O, no, they had rather count the fluttering pulses of their dear boy, cool his fevered brow, and administer the reviving cordial through the weary hours of the night, than to listen to sweetest strains of Orpheus' harp, or thread the winding mazes of the giddy dance.

And so with them the night wore away, the long dark night of suffering to the babe, and watchful anxiety to the parents. But the angel of death that had hovered so long over the darling babe, unfurled his sable pinions and flew away in search of another victim, and he is spared yet a little longer.

Pursuing the way a little farther in another direction, you find another weary watcher by the midnight lamp. An aged woman, who has lived her three score years and ten, sits bolstered up in her chair, toiling for her little remaining sum of existence, which nature seems unwilling to relinquish, although subsisting now upon borrowed time. From an adjoining room comes a frequent hollow cough, and the sunken eye and emaciated frame of the poor girl betray the secret foe, lurking in the hidden springs of life.

Death is no stranger beneath this roof. He has borne away one after another from this numerous household, and laid them down side by side in the silent grave. And now his darts seem aimed at the two only ones of that household, the mother and her daughter. The sons are married and have families of their own, but the mother and this daughter live alone in the home of her youth, the very place, perchance, where she was brought a gay and expecting bride by that husband she is expecting now to follow so soon to the spirit world. Could the pleasures or the gaities of the world cast one cheering beam upon their lonely home? O, no, the religion of Jesus alone can illuminate their benighted hearts, and in "this light they see light," and feel prepared to go when the summons comes.

Following the street, you pass the door of a daughter who is weeping for the recent loss of a mother, who passes suddenly away without a moment's warning, and a widow who mourns a husband, cut off by lingering disease.

A few steps and we reach a cottage, where other parents were watching over a little son of five years, who is wasting away with consumption. His attenuated limbs bear his little frame but feebly, and he often talks of death, for he has recently seen a little sister younger than himself fall a prey to the fearful malady. A burning fever is raging in his veins, and lights up his eye with unwonted brilliancy, as he tossed restlessly from side to side upon his pillow. His silken hair of beautiful brown is brushed smoothly back from his high, marble forehead, while gentle hands apply the cooling bath, to still if possible, its tumultuous throbbings, and he murmurs of sweet sister and of heaven. Soft words of love are whispered in his ear, and he is told of the Lamb of God that bids little children to come unto him.