"Me—me—strike—strike, ye fiends of death!"
But soft—through the ghastly air
Whose falling tear was that? whose breath
Waves through the mother's hair?
A flutter of sail—a ripple of seas—
A speck on the cabin pane;
O God; it's a breeze—a breeze—
And a drop of blessed rain!
And the mother rushed to the cabin below,
And she wept on the babe's bright hair.
"The sweet rain falls the sweet winds blow;
Father has heard thy prayer!"
Bu the child had fallen asleep again,
And lo! in its sleep it smiled.
"Thank God," she cried, "for His wind and His rain!
Thank God, for my little child!"
IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER.
I saw wife pull out the bottom drawer of the old family bureau this evening, and went softly out, and wandered up and down, until I knew that she had shut it up and gone to her sewing. We have some things laid away in that drawer which the gold of kings could not buy, and yet they are relics which grieve us until both our hearts are sore. I haven't dared look at them for a year, but I remember each article.
There are two worn shoes, a little chip hat with part of the brim gone, some stockings, pants, a coat, two or three spools, bits of broken crockery, a whip and several toys. Wife—poor thing—goes to that drawer every day of her life, and prays over it, and lets her tears fall upon the precious articles; but I dare not go.
Sometimes we speak of little Jack, but not often. It has been a long time, but somehow we can't get over grieving. He was such a burst of sunshine into our lives that his going away has been like covering our every-day existence with a pall. Sometimes, when we sit alone of an evening, I writing and she sewing, a child on the street will call out as our boy used to, and we will both start up with beating hearts and a wild hope, only to find the darkness more of a burden than ever.
It is so still and quiet now. I look up at the window where his blue eyes used to sparkle at my coming, but he is not there. I listen for his pattering feet, his merry shout, and his ringing laugh; but there is no sound. There is no one to climb over my knees, no one to search my pockets and tease for presents: and I never find the chairs turned over, the broom down, or ropes tied to the door-knobs.