Will never end.’
You’re little and young, and full of health now, so you don’t know what I mean, as you will by and by, when you grow older; but you can remember, if you can’t quite take it in, that I tell you, after trying it for a good many years, I know our happiness depends a deal more on ourselves than on other people; and it’s only when we’re lazy, and don’t want to stir ourselves, that we think other people have an easier time than we do. B’lieve me, dear children, everybody has the means of being happy or unhappy in their hearts; and these they must take wherever they go; and these make their home and their world.”
The bell for school began to ring, and the children sprang to their feet instantly, saying, “Good by, Uncle Tommy! It’s school-time now!” “Good by, little ones,” said he. “You go to one school, and I’ll go to another, among the dumb children of our Lord!”
Nelly and Ann lingered after the others a moment. “Uncle Tommy,” said Ann, “we will try to do as you want us to, and remember what you say.”
He laid his hands upon their heads, and, looking up to Heaven, said, “May the Spirit of the dear Lord be with ye, and guide your tender feet in the narrow way of life! Bless them, Father, with thy loving presence through their unending life!”
There was a moment’s pause; then Ann said earnestly, “I love dearly to have you bless me, Uncle Tommy”; and with a “Good by,” off she ran to school.
Nelly stopped a moment. She had nestled close to the old man’s side without speaking, and now, throwing her arms around his neck with a real overflowing of her young heart, she kissed his cheek, and then darted off to join her companions in school. Uncle Tommy was surprised, for Nelly did not often express her affection by caresses, as most children do, but by kind deeds.
The action, slight though it was, touched a long silent chord in the old man’s memory. The curtain veiling the past seemed withdrawn, and again he was a child. There was the path from the village across the church-yard, just as it was when first his mother had led him to church, a tiny thing clinging to her skirts. He was the youngest of seven, and the pet; O so long ago! He saw again before him his young brothers and sisters, full of healthful glee; then other forms of long-parted ones joined the procession of years; his sisters’ and brothers’ children; his own cherished wife and much-loved boys and girls: all gone, long, long years ago; and he alone, of all that numerous company, remained. “Thou, Father, hast ever been on my right hand and on my left; very safely hast thou led me on through joy and sorrow unto this shining day; blessed be thy holy name!”
So prayed the old man his last earthly thanksgiving. When the people were dispersing to their homes after service, one, seeing him sitting there in the sheltered nook, came to say “Good morning”; and receiving no answer, he touched his hand. It was cold. There he sat in the glorious sunshine, his old brown hat by his side, wreathed with fresh grass and flowers, as was his custom; but the freed spirit had gone to the Father he so lovingly worshipped.
They made his grave in the sunniest part of the church-yard, where an opening in the trees afforded a lovely view of the village and the meadows, with the gentle flowing river, along whose peaceful banks the old man had loved to wander, gathering flowers and leaves and grasses, and throwing crumbs to the birds, who knew him too well to fly from him. Here they laid him, at the last, and, instead of monument or headstone, the children brought sweet flowering shrubs, and wild brier from the lanes or fields, to plant around his quiet grave.