Mrs. M. I will tell you. One day, in the fall of the year, when almost all the apples were gathered, Mr. Warren, the father of Joseph, while walking round his orchard to see if every thing in it was in good order, as he was looking over the trees he perceived one apple on the top of his favorite tree, the Warren russeting; it looked so beautiful, with the sun gilding its rosy side, that he determined to get it. He was a very active man; so up he climbed until his hand was on the apple, when, just as he had pulled it off, the branch on which he was standing, gave way, he fell to the ground and was instantly killed!
William. Oh dear, how long did he lay there, mamma?
Mrs. M. Not long; some of his workmen, who were near, heard the noise of the fall, and directly went to see what it was.
His youngest son, whose name was John, was then only four years old: dinner was ready at home, and the mother of little John told him to run into the orchard, and see why his father did not come in to dinner: away he went, and, as he was looking eagerly to see if his father was coming, he saw two men carrying something between them: he ran up to them to see what it was, and, only think of it! it was the body of that dear father whose affectionate embrace he was expecting every moment to meet! Those eyes, which had so often beamed on him with love, were closed in death, and the arms, so often held out to embrace him, hung motionless at his side!
Mary. Oh, how I pity the poor boy, he must have felt dreadfully!
Mrs. M. Dreadfully indeed! When he grew up to be a man I often heard him say, that, young as he then was, the feelings of that moment could never be effaced from his mind.
William. I should think he never could have forgotten it.
Mrs. M. I have now told you about the father of Joseph; shall I tell you any thing about his mother, or go on about him?
William. If you please, I should like to hear about his mother. I always feel more interested in any one, when I am acquainted with his father and mother.