[ "There is a reaper, his name is Death,]
And with his sickle keen,
He cuts the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between."
Yes, other families have "Thanksgiving" now under the mossy eaves of the old farm-house—other strange little voices lisp "Grandpapa," "Grandmamma;" and long graves and short graves are in the old churchyard; and names look you in the face from marble tablets, that were once at Scott Farm—oh, such cherished "household words!"
People say that it is a sign of good luck to tumble up stairs. I am glad of it; for, what with my long skirts, and what with the broken stairway, and the pitch darkness, I did nothing but tumble. However, it's my motto never to give up; so, of course I gained the top at last, and, opening a door, found myself in a garret, piled up as high as my waist with old rags, and old papers, and old bits of bones.
"Go down, I say! Don't want you,—don't want anybody. I've got a dreadful pain——. Go down,—there's nothing here;—go down, I say," growled a voice, from a pile of rags in the corner.
I passed by this growling man, without noticing him; for, in the middle of the room was a woman, (oh, so miserable a looking creature!) with her hands crossed hopelessly in her lap, and so buried up in the piles of rags about the floor, that I could see nothing but her head and shoulders.