Chit-chat, or Short Tales in Short Words

by Maria Elizabeth Budden

Pub^d. May 1, 1831, by J. Harris, S^t. Pauls Church Yard.

Each year, the old man grew weaker; but then his children, each year, grew stronger: as he ceased to labour, they began to toil. Oh! what joy to work for him, who had so long worked for them! Things were mending each day at the cottage; for four young hands could do more than two old ones; but yet they were badly off.

One stormy night, a stranger knocked at the cottage door. It was the sailor, the long absent son and father. He had saved a little money, and was come to live and die in his native cot. What joy! What comfort! The old man worked no more. His son and grandson worked for him; his girl nursed him; and all loved him: so his life was calm and blest, and his death was holy and peaceful.

THE KIND FATHER.

In one moment, joy may be changed into mourning; but let us never forget that, in one moment, also, mourning may be turned into joy! I will tell you a story to the point.

A woodman, called Wilfred, had an only son, named Maurice. Maurice was the comfort of his father, and the delight of all his friends. He was humane, active, cheerful; where he worked, labour was soothed by mirth; where he was present, leisure was cheered by sport. He always hoped the best, and was ready for the worst; gay, yet prudent; careful, yet generous.

One stormy winter's night, all on a sudden, he was missing. No friend, no neighbour, knew what was become of him; his father sought for him in each hamlet and village around. No tidings of him could be anywhere gained, except that a cotter's boy thought he had seen him, on that fearful night, on the top of the cliff that hangs over the sea. It was enough; all now believed that he had fallen from the awful height, and was lost in the wild waves below. His father pined and became ill; his friends mourned. "Ye should not thus mourn, as those without hope," said the worthy pastor of the parish; "he may be yet alive."—"That is not possible," cried the weeping parent. "All things are possible," was the pious answer of the curate. Sick, weak, and hopeless, Wilfred took to his bed, and was thought to be dying. The doctors said so; his nurse said so. "Perhaps, he may revive," said the curate. "That is not possible," cried the nurse and the doctor. "All things are possible," was again the reply of the good pastor. One calm night, in spring, the curate was called to pray with the dying man. His friends were weeping around him; he himself thought he had not an hour to live; but the curate did not think so. Some one knocks; the latch is quickly raised; the door opens; in an instant, Maurice is in the arms of his father. Oh, joy! Oh, bliss! How can this be? Maurice, it seems, had fallen into the hands of smugglers, who kept him at sea with them, till, by a lucky chance, he made his escape from them. The sight of him was as if life had been poured into the veins of his father. Did he die? No he lived to prove, and to own, that in one moment our sorrow may be turned into joy.

THE POOR WIDOWER.

When poor Mary died, her husband was wild with grief, for she was young, and tender, and good, and he looked forward to many years of happy life. He would not hear the voice of pity, nor listen to the words of comfort. At first, his friends did not blame his grief, for they knew how much he had lost; but when, against reason, and against duty, he would indulge his regrets, they ceased to pity, and began to reprove. This made him worse, till at last he sank under the struggle of his feelings, and became very, very ill. His was a sickness no doctors could cure, no nurse assuage; yet he had a good nurse, and a good doctor, who did all they could for him. But what can be done for one, who would take no advice, and profit by no kindness? The mind and the body depend much on each other; when the one droops, the other soon sinks. The senses of the mourner became weak and clouded, and his reason seemed shaken. He had one child, but he would never see her; he said, the sight of her would kill him, she was so like her dear mother. Thus he shut himself out from all the comforts yet left him, and then said he had no comforts. This was all very weak, and very wicked.

One morning, when his doctor was sitting with him, trying, in vain, to reason him out of his folly, and his nurse was coaxing him to swallow some broth, his little girl, by chance passed by the room. The door was a little open, so she came in, and took the bason of broth from the table, and, holding it to her father, she lisped the words she heard the nurse saying. "Do take some, pray do, for the sake of your poor child." She did not know who he was, but she saw he was pale and weak, and she knew the nurse well, and she thought to please and help nurse. The sick man started at hearing the soft low voice of the little creature, and the tears came into his eyes, as he looked upon her tiny figure and smiling face. He caught her in his arms and kissed her, and felt all the folly of which he had been guilty, in shutting his eyes to the comfort his Mary had left him, in not having done his duty to the child given to him. He soon began to revive, and to repent of his past weakness. He soon felt that all blessings were not lost in one; that all duty is not comprised in that of mourning for the dead.