Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy
The answering language of the mother's eye.
There was denial, and she shook her head:
no harm will come to them," she
“Nay, nay,
said,
"The mistress lets them off these short dark days
An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says,
May quite be trusted - and I know 't is true
To take care of herself and Jenny too.
And so she ought,
May,
"Now, mind and bring
"don't
Jenny safe home," the mother said,
stay
To pull a bough or berry by the way :
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast
Your little sister's hand, till you're quite past,
That plank 's so crazy, and so slippery
(If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be.
But you're good children — steady as old folk -
- she's seven come first of I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak,
A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied,
And amply little Jenny's lack supplied
Two years the oldest; and they give away
The Christmas bounty at the school to-day."
The inother's will was law (alas, for her
That hapless day, poor soul !)—she could not err,
Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane
(Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again,
When each had had her turn; she clinging so
As if that day she could not let him go.
But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss
In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss,
"God bless my little maids!" the father said,
And cheerly went his way to win their bread.
Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone,
What looks demure the sister pair put on,
Not of the mother as afraid, or shy,
Or questioning the love that could deny;
But simply, as their simple training taught,
In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought
(Submissively resigned the hope of play)
Towards the serious business of the day.
To me there's something touching, I confess,
In the grave look of early thoughtfulness,
Seen often in some little childish face
Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace
(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!)
The unnatural sufferings of the factory child,
But a staid quietness, reflective, mild,
Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes,
Sense of life's cares, without its miseries.
With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said
she,
"To wrap it round and knot it carefully
(Like this), when you come home, just leaving
One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away
Good will to school, and then good right to play."
When, all equipt, they turned them to depart?
When down the lane she watched them as they
Was there no sinking at the mother's heart
So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow, Said she, "My master, if he'd had his will,
The docile Lizzy stood attentive now,
Proud of her years and of imputed sense,
And prudence justifying confidence,
And little Jenny, more demurely still,
Beside her waited the maternal will.
So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain
Gainsborough ne'er painted: no - nor he
Spain,
Would have kept back our little ones from school
This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,
Since they 've been gone, I've wished them back.
But then
Glorious Murillo !- and by contrast shown
More beautiful. The younger little one,
With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair,
By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair,
Sable and glossy as the raven's wing,
And lustrous eyes as dark.
It won't do in such things to humor men,
Our Ambrose specially. If let alone
of He'd spoil those wenches. But it's coming on,
That storm he said was brewing, sure enough, -
Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff
Will come into one's head! And here with you
I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do -
And they'll come home, drowned rats.
be gone
To get dry things, and set the kettle on."
His day's work done, three mortal miles, and | Darkening the doorway; and a smaller sprite,
Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door.
A weary way, God wot, for weary wight!
But yet far off the curling smoke in sight
From his own chimney, and his heart felt light.
How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,
Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood!
How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze,
In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,
Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,
And then another, peered into the night,
Ready to follow free on Tinker's track,
But for the mother's hand that held her back:
And yet a moment a few steps and there,
Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair,
He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair;
Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say,
"Master, we've done our business for the day."
The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs,
The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs ;
From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry, The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain
How grateful the cool covert to regain
Of his own avenue, that shady lane,
With the white cottage, in a slanting glow
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below,
And jasmine porch, his rustic portico !
With what a thankful gladness in his face,
(Silent heart-homage, — plant of special grace !)
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,
Would Ambrose send a loving look before,
Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door;
The very blackbird strained its little throat,
In welcome, with a more rejoicing note;
And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,
All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need,"
Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;
But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear,
The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,
Of his two little ones. How fondly swells
The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,
Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,
And each must tell her tale and "say her say,"
Impeding as she leads with sweet delay
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward
way.
And when the winter day closed in so fast;
Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;
And in all weathers - driving sleet and snow—
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,
Darkling and lonely. O, the blessed sight
(His polestar) of that little twinkling light
From one small window, through the leafless
trees,-
Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he,
Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,
Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,
Streaming to meet him from the open door.
Then, though the blackbird's welcome was un-
heard,
Silenced by winter, note of summer bird
Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive,
But from the cuckoo clock just striking five.
And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen,-
Off started he, and then a form was seen
Let it clatter on!
How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he?
Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree,
With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.
Such was the hour-hour sacred and apart-
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied,
Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet
So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet,
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way;
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray
That time I tell of. He had worked all day
At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed
And the strong arms dropt nerveless.
There was a treasure hidden in his hat,
A plaything for the young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,
When he should yield, by guess and kiss and
prayer
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.
'T was a wild evening, - wild and rough. "I knew,"
Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke
He looked out for the Home Star. There it Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as
The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.
But what's the meaning? no lookout to-night!
No living soul astir! Pray God, all's right!
Who's flittering round the peat-stack in such
weather?
More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light Mother!" you might have felled him with a Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn
When the short answer to his loud "Hillo !" And hurried question, "Are they come?" was "No."
To throw his tools down, hastily unhook
The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook,
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word,
That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard,
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone
To where a fearful foresight led him on.
Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,
Mark Fenton's, -him he took with short delay
To bear him company, for who could say
What need might be? They struck into the track
The children should have taken coming back
From school that day; and many a call and shout
Into the pitchy darkness they sent out,
And, by the lantern light, peered all about,
In every roadside thicket, hole, and nook,
Till suddenly as nearing now the brook
Something brushed past them. That was Tink-
er's bark,
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Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth,
And eyes on some dark object underneath,
Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,
One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid
grown,
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock.
There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that
The doting father? Where's the unriven rock
Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part
As that soft sentient thing, the human heart?
They lifted her from out her watery bed,
Its covering gone, the lovely little head
Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside;
And one small hand, the mother's shawl was
tied,
Leaving that free, about the child's small form,
As was her last injunction "fast and warm".
Too well obeyed, — too fast! A fatal hold
Affording to the scrag by a thick fold
That caught and pinned her in the river's bed,
While through the reckless water overhead
Her life-breath bubbled up.
Unheeded, he had followed in the dark,
Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light,
Darted before them now. "Be sure he 's right,-
He's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that
light Low down, - he 's making for the water. Hark! I know that whine, the old dog's found them, Mark."
So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. "Yet there's life somewhere, more than Tink er's whine,
The wretched mother's heart, when she knew all,
"But for my foolishness about that shawl!
And Master would have kept them back the day;
But I was wilful, driving them away
In such wild weather!"
Thus the tortured heart Unnaturally against itself takes part, Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe Too deep already. They had raised her now, That s sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern And parting the wet ringlets from her brow, shine To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold,
Down yonder. There's the dog, - and, hark!" The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled
And a low sob came faintly on the ear,
Once more the fatal shawl - her winding-sheet -About the precious clay. One heart still beat,
Like troutlets in a pool.
Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child | There were some that ran, and some that leapt
He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild
Pierced him afresh, and now she knew him not.
"Mother!" she murmured, "who says I forgot?
Mother indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold,
Away they sped with gamesome minds
And souls untouched by sin;
And tied the shawl quite close-she can't be cold-To a level mead they came, and there
But she won't move- we slipt-I don't know
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,
Poor lamb she wandered in her mind, 't was Turning to mirth all things of earth
Above, below, for all were watchers there,
Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care,
Parental watchfulness, availed not now.
But in the young survivor's throbbing brow,
And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned;
And all night long from side to side she turned,
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove,
With now and then the murmur, "She won't
move."
And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright
Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,
That young head's raven hair was streaked with
No idle fiction this. Such things have been,
We know. And now I tell what I have seen.
Life struggled long with death in that small frame,
Bat it was strong, and conquered. All became
As it had been with the poor family, -
All, saving that which nevermore might be :
There was an empty place, they were but three.
CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
"T WAS in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school;
As only boyhood can;
But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man !
His hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessèd breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease;
So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside,
For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide ;
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
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