The Dead [pp. 210]

210 MALEVOLENT WIT.-MY SISTER
suffered, tears mingled with the blood that dropped
over his clumsy hands. I cared not now how ill shapen they were, nor how small his coat was, nor
whether he could read at all or not; he was the
best boy in school-that I would have contended
for against them all.
It was nearly night of the day following that of
which I have written, when I noticed Mr. Smith,
the father of Jerred, riding fast toward his home
in company with the village doctor. Jerred had
not been at school that day, and fear whispered
that some harm had befallen him. The next morn ing the children who lived nearest Mr. Smith's
reported that Jerred, in consequence of sudden
dizziness, for he was not well, had fallen from a
high scaffold, fracturing his skull, and otherwise
injuring himself badly.
Day after day I inquired how he was-now a
little better, and now worse, they told me; and
then the doctor thought he could not get well;
and next he had not spoken since the last midnight,
and was given up. The morning after this sorrow ful tidings, as I came in view of the graveyard, I
saw two men, with spades and pickaxes in their
hands, open the gate and go in.
There was no need that I should inquire; I knew
that Jerred was dead. In the afternoon passed the
funeral train, slow and solemn-men, and women,
and children-in wagons, and on horseback, and
afoot; some in the bitterness of undisciplined sor row, crying aloud-a sound that was fearful to hear.
I saw the unvarnished walnut coffin-Jerred's
parents were poor-as it was carefully lifted from
the wagon, and borne within the gate; I heard the
rattling of the heavy clods, and then the flattening
spades against the heaped mound.
Often I have climbed on the stone wall, or pressed
my face to the bars of the gate, to'look upon the
earth where rests my once despised schoolmate,
and never without anguish of soul that will not be
quieted in penitence or prayer. Will it be in
confession?
MALEVOLENT WIT.
MALEVOLENT wit is that kind which will lose a
friend sooner than a joke. To be captious and
contradictory is offensive enough, but not so provoking, so unbearable, as the spirit of mockery
affected by witlings and coxcombs; for that, like a
blighting east wind,- withers up every living and
heart-felt sentiment springing up in conversation,
and especially chills and disheartens the young in
the earliest intercoursewith the world. The weapon
inflicting the wound is so fine as to be scarcely perceptible, but the point has been dipped in poison.
A breeze, itself invisible, often makes a whole lake
to shudder. Yet we would rather be cut by a keen
than by a bluntslancet, and a coarse, supercilious
way is almost as hateful as the freezing irony of
more subtile ill-humor.
MY SISTER IN HEAVEN.
BY ALIOB.
I KNOW, I know the cold dark grave
Has closed upon thee now,
And, shrouded in its silent gloom,
Thy form is crumbling low.
I loved thee, sister, as the life
Thou'st left so lone and drear,
And deeply sinks this hidden grief,
Unspoke, save by a tear.
And it had weighed my spirit down
In bitterness and woe,
But for the gentle lays that float
Like angel notes below.
Sister, like harbingers they come,
From thy bright home and thee,
And breathe into my burdened heart
Their cheering sympathy.
Oft, sister, at the hush of night,
Soft, beauteous in its calm,
I've lingered near thy resting-place
To weep, all, all alone,
When sweetest music through the air
Would sound in melody,
And, sister, thou hast waked my heart
To wildest rhapsody.
My bosom feels not then the chill
Death cast upon its hopes,
And something bears my spirit up
To higher, loftier scopes.
Sister, I drink inspired draughts,
From founts I fancy ne'er
Have mingled in their crystal depths
The dregs of earthly fear.
Then, sister, is it not thy love
Still glowing in a breast,
Refined by flames of purity,
And peacefully at rest?
0, then rekindle all its fires,
And tune, while life shall last,
Thy angel harp, in wildest strains,
For one who feels its blast!
Guard, till the portals wide are flung,
And my freed spirit soars:
Then, kindred spirits, let us join
The throng upon its shores.
THEII DEAD.
WHEN the clear red sun goes down,
Passing in glory away;
And night is spreading her twilight frown
On the open brow of day;
When the faintest glimmering trace is gone,
And all of light is fled,
Then, then does Memory, sad and lone,
Call back the dear ones dead..
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IN HEAVEN.-THE DEAD.