Familiar Letters [pp. 79-80]

FAMILIAR LETTERS.
FAMILIAR LETTERS.
BY WR5. 9. J. HOWE.
DEAR, how much I wish you were with me today-you who can enjoy nature in all her various
forms, tracing in each the goodness and power of
Him who formed them!
Spring seems to have taken the place of winter.
The trees that grow by the brook-side begin to put
forth new buds, and here and there you may find a
violet stealing modestly through the grass, already
green as that of April-the birds are singing as
merrily as if the "clustering leaves of June" were
around them, and the daffodils in our ample garden
are springing upward, lured by the wayward smiles
of a winter sun. How different is nature in the
country from nature in the town! Different, indeed! The very flowers spring up, and hold themselves upon their slender stalks with queenly dignity, as if they felt their independence, and rejoiced in
their freedom, the vines clamber unfettered and untrained in luxuriant beauty, and the trees tower as
if they strove to pierce the blue above them. The
country maiden trips lightly along the mountain
paths, while the joyous song, or thrilling laugh, tells
"hcw lightly sits her bosom's lord." I can see you,
my friend, nursing your pale and drooping flowers,
placing them in the warm sunshine that steals only
in unsteady gleams through your windows. How
sadly they seem to look up to you for succor, and
ask for the refreshing shower and balmy sunshine!
I have often thought, foolishly, perhaps, that, if I
had never known any life but that of a city, with
its cloud-covered skies, its stunted trees, and sickly
flowers, I should have had a different idea of the
supreme Ruler from that which now fills my heart,
and makes it overflow with gratitude. As it is, I
stand beneath a glorious canopy, studded with innumerable gems-the "blossoms from the tree of
life" scattered with a lavish hand along the boundless blue-the free breeze flits by, its wild, sweet
music unbroken; and the glad streamlet leaps onward, and, as it passes, makes a sad, yet pleasing
melody among the moss-clad pebbles. In the
morning the unfettered sunlight falls, in a full,
broad stream, on hill and valley, while the birds
sing for very gladness, that existence has been bestowed-all nature, animate and inanimate, rejoices,
and insensibly the human heart is led through "nature up to nature's God."
For the last five weeks I have been watching by
the bedside of one of the most interesting children
I have ever known-a little boy of four years. You
will think, perhaps, that a sick child of such a tender age could have but little to interest one whose
visions and fancies partake so much of the ideal.
Not so, dear-; I am truly grateful that so much
of earth and the woman is left in my heart stillthat I can "laugh with those who laugh, and weep
with those who weep." My little friend was the
son of Mr. M., of this village-a child of uncommon intellect, and a pet and favorite with all who
knew him. An incipient disease of the brain had
been stealing. upon our little friend like an unsuspected foe; and when discovered, it was met with
all the skill and watchfulness of a judicious physician, and the untiring affection of parents whose
greatest fault was that of idolizing their child-of
cherishing too fondly, perhaps, the fair casket which
enshrined a gem intended for the Savior's crown.
I shall never forget the enduring love and faithfulness of that mother, nor the soothing attention and
woman-like care of the father. I say woman-like,
for few men know how to be so beside a sick-bed.
How patient was that little sufferer! Though enduring excruciating pain, no murmur escaped his
lips-no frown settled on his brow; and I often
thought, as I sat beside him, that there the fretful
and impatient might learn a lesson. For three
weeks speech was denied him; but the clear light of
intellect still shone undimmed in the dark, earnest
eyes, and his glance still followed the loved ones as
they moved silently and sadly about the room. To
me the idea has ceased to be gloomy; for my spirit
overleaps the grave, and sits down among the stainless bowers of Eden; and, but for my sympathy
with the afflicted family, my imagination would
have constantly beheld this cherished earth-flower
transplanted to the fadeless gardens of our God.
In the lonely watches of the night I had ample
time for reflection; and strange thoughts and fancies stole into my heart. I thought of the dear
ones I had lost, who slept sweetly among the clods
of the valley-whose spirits reposed in the bosom
of our Father. I thought of the messages from the
living to the dead, not uncommon in the Highlands.
It is said that the "Gael have such a ceaseless consciousnessof immortality, that their departed friends
are considered as only absent for a time, and are permitted to relieve the hours of separation by occasional intercourse with the objects of their earliest
affections." Howv much better to feel thus, than to
feel, as we too often do, that we are parted for ever!
Almost unconsciously I laid my head on the pillow of the sick child, when life was ebbing fast
away, and whispered those sweet words of Mrs.
Hemans:
"And tell our white.haired father
That in the paths he troae,
The child he loved, the last on earth,
Yet walks, and worships God!
Say that his last fond blessing yet
Rests on my soul like dewv,
And by its hallowing might I trust
Once more his face to view.
And tell our gcntle mother
That on her grave I pour
The sorrows of my spirit forth,
As on her breast of yore."
My heart leaped gladly in my bosom as I thought
that the fair child before me, worn and wasted with
disease, would soon be clad in the glorious robes of
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