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KUU ^1 3.2 3.6 Hi m 1 2.2 1.8 ^ APPLIED IfvM GE I nc 165 J East Main Street Rochester, New York 14609 USA (716) 482 -0300 -Phone (716) 288-5989 -Fax I.— OUD HERBERT AND JENNY IN THE 0"y«0"^*"°- p,g, gj. II.^THE BOBIAL PtAOL OF LITTLE ALICE. ^^^ 33. S:- OLD HERBERT AXO LITTLE ALICE. / s kg«3S. JAMES CAMPBELL AND SON, TORONTO AND MONTREAL 1866. OLD HERBERT kSD LITTLE ALICE. CHAPTER I. THE FLOWER AND THE SEED. Old Herbert was a very old man, or at least he seemed so to me, as I stood behind the wild rose-bash, peeping out at him as he sat beneath the shade of the large elm near the roadside. His eyes were bent upon the earth, and his chin rested upon hfs folded hands which were supported by a rude staff of oak. His hear' was uncovered, and his long white locks lay back from his temples, and fell in silken threads upon liis coarse, dark coat. The expression of his face seemed to be sad ' but very quiet. ' I moved the branches of my rose-tree covert, in order to peep forth a little farther, when the sound I ma^le attracted the quick ear of the old man ; and he turned Ins head suddenly and discovered my retreat. I W'M a little creature, not six years old at that tiipe. THE FLOWER AND THE SEED. aud had stolen out from a gate in my father's garden, to look up and down the high-road and watch the paa* sengers. I was often wont to spend an hour or two at ft time in tliis way, sometimes with my book in my hand, but oftener I took my play-hours for this occupa- tion. As soon as I was discovered, I thought it best to retreat, and was creeping back to the gate, when the voice of the old man arrested my steps. " Little child," he said, (and his voice was weak and tremulous,) " do not run away from me. I wiP. not harm you. I love little children. Will you not come to me and let me look upon your smiling, angel face?" I instinctively approached as he spoke, with some doubt and hesitation, and laid my hand upon his arm. •* Ah ! little one," said he, " why are you afraid ? You need not fear an old man — a very old man, like me. Look up in my face, and let me tell thee what Jesu9 said of little children." I gained confidence as he went on, and nestled close to his side, and even leaned against his shoulder while he encircled me with his arm. " I would not harm thee," said he, " though thou art small ; for Jesus saith, * Take heed that ye depise not one of these little ones, for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father in heaven.' " " Yes," I answered, looking earnestly up into his face, ** I did not fear you would do me any harm, good old man ; and the words Jesus said are beautiful, and I love to hear you speak them ; but how came you here, sir? Tcli little Jenny, please, sir. You should THE FLOWER AND THE SEED. cttme to niy father's house, and he will give you food and shelter." " I am on my way to my Fatlier's liouse." said the old man, as he raised his eyes to heaven, " I need travel but a little farther on my journey." "Your father's house!" said I, in astonishment. " Have you a father?— an old man like you I Why, how can that be ? I thought that people—" "Thought what, little Jenny?" said the old man. "What didst thou think?" " I thought, sir, that i)eople as old as you were grand- fathers, and then— then they died, sir ; " I continued, dropping my voice in sadness ; but recollecting myself, I soon added, in a more cheerful tone, " I mean that then they went to heaven, and lived with God and all good people, sir." " That is all true, my little girl, but the Father of whom 1 speak is my Father in heaven; and I am travelling on towards the home he has appointed for me in heaven. My journey is almost finished. Fourscore and ten years have I been upon the c arth already. I have seen all I love pass away— pass away—" continued the old man, his voice sinking low, and I looked up and a tear trembled in his faded eye. I reached up my pina- fore to brush it away, and laid my childish cheek against Ids weather-beaten h and sobbed aloud. I do not know what made me .feep, it was a strange sympathy. It ever seemed part of my nature to weep with those who weep. " Dear little hild," said the old man, " you cannot tell how many scenes you bring back to me. You are so iin.c iujr iifcwc jxuvc — guuu, g'ouuu, iniiia iiMCG', yoiiT nail 8 WE FLOWER AND THE SEED. has just such golJon waves as hcr's— and your eyea, your cheeks, and your little loving mouth, just like her'i —just like Alice. ' " And who was Alice, old man V said I. " Was she your little girl? and is she dead now?" I asked, hi childish earnestness, not knowing what visions of past joy I was bringing up to his mind. " Little Alice was my last little grandchild— the only one left me ; and I trust she is an angel, now, in heaven : blessed be God." " Blessed be God !" I almost unconsciously repeated, and folded my hands together. *' Yes, we should all bless God, little Jenny, when Ho sees fit to take one of us to become an angel." " She died then," said I ; " luid was she six years old, sir?" " No, not quite six years old when she was taken from me. She would have been six the next coming Clirist- mas." " Just as old as I am, sir," I said, " and she died ; and do you really think she is an angel ?" " Yes, little one, I think she is. Dear Alice was my Ught and my joy, but God would not that I should lovo her too much. He took my lamb to his fold, and I am following her thither. " Please to tiill me about her, sir. I should like to hear about Httle Alice— how you loved her, and how she died and was made one of God's angels." And I put my little hand in his, as I stood looking in his face. " I can tell you about dear little Charlie, who, mother says, is an angel now; though his grave is in the chui-chyard." THE FLOWER AND THE SEED. 9 t< k. Then you, too, have known what sorrow is, little one," 8aiJ the old man, gazing upon me with tearful eyes. " Who would have thoujiht it— who wouldhave thought it ! A brother, a little i»laymate, I suppose," he continued to himself, " very dear to little Jenny no doubt. Ah me! And who was little Charlie, that you speak of, Jenny/" " He was my little brother, sir, just two years old — veiy little, sir. lie was sick in the spring, and when the first violets cane, mother and I planted them upon u little mound, ai/l mother said it was Charlie's grave, and we always kee^, them fresh there, sir. Would you like to go and see them some time?" " How did you feel whon Charlie died/" " I did not know, sir. I was sick, and nurse says mother thought I would die instead of Charlie ; but nurse says God was so kind to father and mother that he let me live." "Did you not miss your little playmate, Jenny? And do not the hours often seem long to you?" " Miss him, sir! I am sure I do. I run for my top and my books and my dolls, and set them out, and think, now Charlie shall come, and then— and then—" " And then, little Jenny, you should think of little Charlie as one of those about the throne and about the Lamb — as one of the harpers harping with his harp- as safe in God's arms." " So I try to, sir ; but then the little mound in the churchyard. Little Charlie is there. It is just as long as he is, and Mary Lee told me that when people died they put their bodies in boxes and buried them \n the earth: and I cannot hear to think that Charlie is so. \ 10 THE FLOWER AND TEE SEED. When my little canary died, we buried him ; but thtn that was different. He could not stand, nor fly, nor sing; but could it be so with Charlie, he waa so full of life and laughter and played so pleasantly? When I ask mother about him, she weeps so sadly she cannot speak. Tell me about it, sir, if you can." " Your little canary, you said, died, little Jenny. Ilis life was gone, and as he was useless you could not care to keep liim, would you ?" He could give you no pleasure. He would never sing again, his presence reminded you of what he had been, and you were not sorry when you saw him laid in the ground. Could it not be the same with CharUe, if he could no more talk and play with you ? Would you wish to have him put out of your sight, like the canary?" "Oh, no, su:. Oh no!" I replied, " Never— never. There would be his lovely hair, that 1 have curled over my fingers so many times, and his dear eyes, and the little hands. No, sir, not while one of these was left should I wish to have hun laid in the ground." " But if his brijht eyes were closed for ever, so as never to meet your own— if the voice was hushed, and the little hands were as lifeless as my staff here—** " No, sir, no— no," I continued " But could you bear to see all that you loved changed, so that you could not know it. Could you bear that? " " Oh ! 1 could not bear that," I sobbed ; " that is what nurse said. But was it so ? Please, sir, tell me, for I always wanted some one to tell me; but they all cried when I spoke to them : and I do not know." " Yes, my dear little Jenny, the body, the form oi your dear little brother was put away out of your sight, TTTE FLOWER AND THE SEED. 11 . because it was to be changed ; but he will appear again in another and more beautiful body. Yoii have a little garden of your own, have you not, Jenny," said he, changing his tone, " with shrubs and flowers in it? Do you never plant any seeds?" " Oh yes, sir. You must see my morning-glories. I planted *he seeds myself in the spring." "And were they not small black seeds, very small and not at all pretty?" said the old man. " Yes, sir,— yes, sir, little bits of brown seeds, not so big as peas." " Well, you planted them in the ground, and what came up, Jenny?" "Oh, sir, I watched ther. /ery closely every day. First appeared above the ground a little folded leaf, sir, with a brown cap on the top of it, which Robert said was part of the seed. Then leaf after leaf came up and opened ; and it grew taller and taller, and now it has such flowers, sir— blue and pun)le and white, sometimes full twenty in one morning." " Well, Jenny, were you not willing to lose the seed a little while that you might have such beautiful blue- bells?" " Oh yes, sir," said I, in wonder. " It is just so with little Charlie. He will at the last great day come forth a more perfect and glorious body. But you must not think of the body, Jenny. The body without the spirit is like a cast-ofiF dress. Your canary had lost its voice, the spirit of life was gone, and its song had left it, so that it was as useless to you as this piece of a clod at my feet. But when God saw fit that the spirit of little Charlie should quit his body, he took him V 12 THE FLOWER AND THE SEED. to himself, and perhaps he clothed it in an angel's form, i he body of your little brother, which, though most beautiful, was but perishing dust, lies in the church- yard, and there it wiU remain until God shall unite the soul to it which He will do at the last great day, when ley will become united and glorious together. So that the body is but laid aside as a garment. And this body of yoiu^ and of mine too, little Jenny, is but a garment, —an earthly house in which the spirit dwells." " I do not know what it at all means," I said • " but v^hen I get older I may know. I will think about it- ' that httle Charlie is in heaven and his useless body is laid m the grave." ' " I wish I could make you understand it, but I fear I cannot. Suppose you inhabited a house by yourself you had the care of it, you opened the windows and floors, and admitted the fresh air, and you furnished it 'M very nicely, would you be the house any more for that?" " m, sir," I answered, « I should still be Jenny, and the house would only be a house." " Well, suppose your father wished you to leave the house, and go and dwell with him and your mother and you would gladly go and leave the house, would not the house remain ? And if no other person took it, and repaired it, and kept it in order, would it not soon faU to pieces? And even with the best care, would it not ma few years be so old and ruinous, that nobody couJd live in it? Just so with the soul and body of «ich of us. Our souls are placed in a house, perchance a veiy beautiful house, as was little Charlie's. Our Father in heaven ostUf^i} tha an,-,i 4-^ ,i — -n -._fiv »-r. . - , ^.,v „^..^i j,y urvcii wiia mm, auii the r/^ FLOWER AND THE SEED. 13 perishing body, without the soul, soon crumbles into dust." " Well, sir, I think I understand better now, about the soul and the body. God called Charlie's soul to leave liis body, and then his little body was put in the gi-ave, to lie until—'* " Until," answered the old man, " until the soul shall need the body again. Then will it be made exceedingly glorious, and both soul and body will become the companion of angels." " Well, sir, if Charlie is so happy, I should not think mother would cry so. Do you believe she knows all you now tell me?" " Oh yes," said the old man, " but she misses her darling so every day, and has so much to remind her of him, it makes her weep. She knows that little Charlie is happy." " Do you know my mother, sir ? " I said. " I knew her many years ago, Jenny, and she was so gentle and good then, that I feel she cannot be changed, now that she has had you and little Charlie to love." " Well, that is strange, I thought you did not know anybody here. But you have not told me afeout Alias sir— you promised to tell me all about her." The word Alice seemed again to fill the heart of the old man with grief, and his eyes with tears. " The sun is going down now, Jenny. To-morrow, if you will come to this same spot, 1 will tell you all about little Alice. Oh, she was so much like you, God bless you, my little one!" and he laid his withered hands upon my head. " Gove said, Jenny, about the soul and the body?" "Oh! yes," I answered; "she lives in heaven with God ; and not in this world, as you say." " Yes, yes," he answered quickly; " I shall go to her before long. Little Alice became sick in the spring. I hardly knew what her disease was. She seemed frail and weak, and tired all the time. Her will seemed strong; she wished to do as she had always done, but her little hands would tremble, and her limbs fail her. " The neighbours all loved little Alice, and all were kind to her, and would come in and sit with her, and talk with her, and take her out to ride in their waggons, and bring her all the little delicacies they could: but it was of no avail She became weaker and weaker, day by day. " She seemed to love to have no one to assist her so well as myself, and she would take the most nauseous medicine from me with a smile; for she was 'pleas- ing grandlather,' as she said. She would sit in the old arm-chair, her little head pillowed upon the back, and watch me at my work by the hour. And now and then, when a tear would spring into my eyes, as I looked upon her, she would seem so grieved, and would tell me not to cry, for she felt no pain. But she never said to me, • I shall be well again, gi-andfather; and then I wiU help you.' She seemed to know, from the beginning, that her young life must soon pass away from me. Hei lavourite time was when my daily labour was done, and ^ THE Cmss AND THE CROJVy. I would sit in the window of our little house, in tlie arm-chair, with Alice in my arras: her little head flf^iiist my shoulder, h^r earnest eyes looking up in my face, while I was tryin- to prepare her for the inherit- ance of the saints in light. •' I God is very good to me,' said she one of these evenings, * hecause he gives me so many blessings ; such a dear, good grandfather who can teach me the way to heaven. You must remember little Alice was always niost happy with you, dear grandfather; but then who can tell how happy the angels in heaven are, tiiat are about the throne of God and the Lamb !' " • Your little Alice will soon leave you,' she would say again. * You will miss me, dear grandfather ; you will hear no little foot-fall, no merry laugh. Yen will see no little pale and dying child, no little Alice ; but then I feel that Christ has forgiven me all my sins, and washed my soul in his most precious blood : and I fear nothing, grandfather, but leaving you alone in the world.' " One day she said to me, after thinking a great while, ' Grandfather, I have often done very wicked things. I have often thought things that seem to me now very fearful. I remember once T did not love God. I felt as if God was not always kind. I thought it was not kind in God to let you be so poor, and have to work so hard ; and have all yoiu- friends to die so : and so many wicked people live on and be happy. I thought you ■ ; .^ va k,> good, grandfather, you ought lo be richer and harsv-'fii- '^ la it not wicked in me to think that ?' " * It is never right in us,' I ans?vered, • to doubt Goil's kindness to each of us. He would not be a Father THE CROSS AXD TUB CRO\VN. 33 to 118, if ho wcro not kin I ; but, Alice, whenever such thoughts come into your head, you should imniodiat^ly compare the lot of the poorest an] meanest among us with that of Him who said in his deep poverty: Foxes have holes, the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head. And when yon think of what I have passed through, and have yet to pass through,' I added, as I pressed my gentle trea- sure closer to my heart, ' think of Him who bore all our griefs, and carried all our sorrows— who was a man of sorrows! Oh! Alice, Alice: the cross is heavy, but the crown— the crown ! ' " I looked up in old Herbert's face. His eyes were turned towards heaven with such a look of holy peace and joy. " Tell me more of little Alice, please sir," I said. " Did she go to heaven ?" " If the blood of Christ cleanses from all sin, Alice is in heaven. I never doubted that, blessed be God ! not one doubt did I have of that." " What did she say when she was sick and knew she was to die? Did she not want to live? I think I should be very sorry to die ; it is so beautiful to live." " Ah ! but is it not moie beautiful to be where sin and sorrow never enter; where the blessed Jesus shall wipe away all tears of grief? I often talked to Alice about dying, that it might become familiar to her. I knew she could never recover, and I did not wish to deceive her. I called heaven her home, where she would meet her father and mother, and others who had gone before her ; and where I soon should join her. I taught her a groat many texts from Scripture, and she would apply them to iierself in a touching manner; and many friends 24 THE CROSS AND THE CROWN. Who came in to see her wondered at her: she seemed hke one so much older than she was. " ' Little Alice,' I said, one day, * do you think you aro good enough to go to heaven, to be one of God's angels?' " ' Good enough ! grandfather,' she said. ' Good enough! Oh no; not ^ood enough, but Christ is good enough, and he is my Saviour. What could I ever have done to deserve to go to heaven ? God gives it to me grandfather. He loves me! Oh how much he must love 1110 to give me heaven! You were verjr kind to me once, dear, dear grandfather, when my father and my mother died. I did not deserve that you should take me and take care of me; but you loved me, because I was little and poor and feeble, and could not take care of myself. And God loves me in the same way, and will take me to dwell with him, with the same love. Jesus is most kind to me,' she said ; * I used to fear to die, and when little Johnny Bums died I thought it was' very hard; but now all is so blessed, God is so good.' • " * Is there nothing you wish for, Alice V I once said, *no comfort I can give you? Can you not think of something?' " * Oh! no,' she answered, * the Lord my is shepherd, I cannot want. You do not know what green pastures 1 shall roam in, and beside what stiU waters I shall wander.' " " Was little Alice sick very long?" I asked. " Yes, my dear, for four months she lay in utter help- lessness, but her mind was bright and active. The last day of her life, shall I ever forget it! It was just at this season, little Jenny, twenty-five years ago— a beautiful summer's day ; she lay upon lier little bed M ^ ; THE CROSS AND THE CROWN. 25 fi mth the window open, and with some flowers in her hand, with which she was trying to weave a chaplet Her eye shone brightly, and her beautiful hau- lay about her, Uke golden thread. One by one the flowers droT)ped from her tmy fingers; and she looked on me with very sad eyes, and then their expression changed, and a light divine seemed to break from them. " ♦ I was thinking, grandfather,' said she, faintly, *of the flowers that never fade- of the crown of righteou*. ness. And as I took up these roses, one by one they seemed to fall from my fingers all withered. Grand- father, I feel as if I soon shall be with Jesus. He has been, oh! so kind to me; he hath forgiven all my pms, and 1 feel so happy. Take me up, grandfather- but no, let me lie here while you read to me what it says about the new Jerusalem, in the last part of the Jiible. I am never tired of hearing that.' " I opened my old Bible and read, ' And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the hrst earth were passed away : and there was no more sea. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down Irom God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saymg. Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people and God himself shall be with them, and be their God! And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes ; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away. And I sa.v no temple therein • fpr^the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the tcuiple of It ; and the city hath no need of the aim, neither 211 THE CROSS AND THE CROWH. Of tho moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did ■ghten ,t, and the Lamb is the light therif l„dte showed me a pure river of water of life clear asC^ pvoceedmg out of the throne of God and of t^e tab' And there shall be no mom eu,.e, but the throne of G^' »d of the Lamb shall be in it ; and his servants shaU sTan,^T„'tr%*"'lT "^ "-«-«; «nd his nam shall be m their foreheads. And there shall be no nisht there; and they need no candle, neither lil of fhe sun ; for the Lord God giveth them Ught : and they sh^? rergn for ever and ever.' ""u mey snail thItlttifT-f ■;? *'"''?' era-^ifather,' she said, ?^' ^'^» "^ to the workin/of m1 T ^'""""^ ""^r. accordina .".to hri^"* t'^';*c"vr'''" "" "^"^ little face peeBin/Lffi. Tu- ^/" "*'' ^""^ 'ovuig boardyourfoatg^- ^Xt i^rht *"' a dream-a sad troubled dreamed mf^A ""^ ^"' alive to bless and comfort mt» ' ^''^ ""^ ^'^ "Oh^I t'1-!5! f^'t ^ ^"^"^ ^^°^* ^^t«e Alice." I said THE CROSS AND THE CROWN. 29 You must live aa she did if yea would die aa she died, ittle Jenny, She feared the Lord, and prayed daily that Christ would take from her the heart which was witli- in her, sinful by nature, and give her a pure heart. But there are few such as little Mce was, in aU the world. She had been bom and brought up in the lap of sorrow, and it had given her mind a peculiar bent, and had helped to purify her heart and life. Oh ' my Alice— my little lovely Alice!" continued the old man with eagerness, "thy life was sweet and gentle-thy death blessed and peaceful! ShaU I be deemed worthy to enter that heaven where thou art gone? My hoDe IS through Christ ; nothing without that blessed Jesus who loved us and washed us from our sins in his own blood. But, little Jenny, will not your mother tear for you? You are absent so long, the sun casts long shadows. I must see you again, my little friend. You promised to show me where Httle Charlie sleeps, and to-morrow, (if your mother wiU permit you to go with me,) we will meet here again at the same hour." I will ask mother," I answered. " I know she will let me come; but please talk to me a little more, sir. before I go. Mother hr.s gone away and will not be back till the evening, and she will let me stay, I am ^ery sure. I want you to teU me, sir, how you lived when Alice was taken from you, and if you still made baskets m your little house." " No, ah no ! I could not remain there. I retimied. after we laid her in the grave, to my lonely and deserted house; but I could not, no! I fear I could never have been contented to live there again. I packed ub all tbP littie treasures I had : my scanty wardrobe, my old Bible 80 THE CROSS AND THE CROWN. hand, and walked tohflrvr''™^/'"'' '■" ""^ five yeare I have beer a C^^. "Ilage and for twenty. «nd sell them to obWnCT"; «'"''' '"^''^ •''«tet, weary wanderer, Jenn^i^^f, ?" » ^''t^'-" «ary, to d,e he.., and God ha. granted ^1^^^; " ^^"^ rni:»erL:rd3^'-' and I should be sorelrnn^^j """^ "■"» s'<»'I. 03ie. and witw-^^^tf fCt^7':''^"''•«■'f- walked quietly ^^ The^erl" '\^''' ^-^ him fen, my^ht butf^wT*?' "'"'' ''*'' ''" M he mormnred, '^^ '^^ "P™ ■»=• "So like n.y Alice- So like my little, loving Alice!" I, THE CHURCHYARD. CHAPTER IV. THE CHURCHYARD. I waa earlier than usual the next day. having ohtafno^ ^UMI placed myself upon the rude" waft m? te aid f^Tr r ™™' ™* •" ■'*' '*en off his ^Iv^^I^ t .^^ '"■'''' ""^ P'»3^»« «*•> Ua thin •lively locks. 1 ran to meet hira. He seemed dad J^ J«. me ; and when I held up my childish Sfort^s he bent over me, and called me "Alice" Dear old man how I loved tim. Though but an aoqua'Ln" ftmshed-feeble and weaiy with protracted wandering • -hf tol™ Cd "1°'"'^'' "^OP^ °f ^ "W *-^-- lum of which I could not dream, a hope of a elorious most blessed old man ! "**PP/. very low and soft, and soon we ceased to speak Thf. y a^otath' 7^r1 "' «^^^^^PP-chab" "nly Dy a tootpath-for the strong man and ^ho ir.f.^4. ' Dom to die. were alita hn«,. *. ^i.:.., ':".' V"""'^^' I'um to die, were alike borne to their quiet home here, 92 THE CHURCarjBD. upon the :„cr, and by the vUIagera themselves. Ther. were many laige trees casting their daric shadow uZ the long grass and flowera. Many „f the stonel Tre ZJ.7, ^ *''° ^"'^"^ ™ "^1 f»<»Iaiit violets on your grave, if I know where you sleep and on little Alice's grave too. Will you not show me where Ahce's grave is ? You said she was buried here." fi. ?^^Tl "f ^ *°°^ ""^ ^y *^^ ^^H and we walked fhff'Sf V J ',^'^'^''^^^' ^"^ '^''^ *<^ the wall, on the farthest side, lay a long row of sunken graves, some with head-stones, and some without anything to mark the spot as a grave. But a few rods tfpart from the rest was a little grave very short and narrow, the turf fresh upon it, and flowers blooming and newly watered, and a small white tomb- Btone, with the simple word and beneath that, ALiZCE; SHE HATH GONE UNTO HIM WHO HATH LOVED HER. — .^^^ ^^ „,,^ ^ g^^ ^j^^ ^^ ^^p^ together. ^ !imt liWlHiiiiftlliliiHii 31 THE CHURCHYARD. " There are all mine," he said ; " all my own house- hold there whom I loved, each and all so dearly. Yes, there are many graves ; and as I look at each, thoughts of what these silent tenants were in life rush into my u nd— the young, the manly, the gentle, the timid, he loving, the pious, and the thoughtless— all, all come up to me. God only knows how many of those that sleep here shall rise to the life everlasting. You said you would plant flowers upon my grave, Jenny: I shall not forget that.", " And on Alice's, too," I said. " I will keep it iresh." " Ah, I shall be so glad when I think of tha.t, Jenny ; to feel that there is one little one who loves me, and who will come and visit the spot where my dust lies ; but you must plant the faurest flowers on Alice's grave, and see that the forget-me-nots are always blooming there. It will be a pleasure to me to know that the graves are to be so attended, and by one so lik ^ Mice. But, Jenny, you must not think of us as sleepiDg here— you must think of us, as my Alice said, before the Throne and the Lamb ; as being cleansed from all pollution in the foun- tain of Christ's love, and coming forth clothed in white robes, and following the Lamb whithersoever he goeth." " Yes, sir ; yes, sir," I quickly answered ; " and soon mother, and father, and their little Jenny will come to heaven, and God will let us see you and little Alice." We ^t in this quiet manner for some time, the old man talking of the blessings of the redeemed, and when we arose to go, the setting sun threw a rich glory over the scene. The graveyard seemed to me like a home for the weary, a pleasant sleeping-place; and as we paused a moment ^^t little Alice's headstone, I looked THE CHURCHYARD. 85 n house- y. Yes, thoughts into ray mid, he come up lat sleep ou wouM lot forget it nresh." ;, Jenny; me, and lies ; but rave, and ng there, raves are t, Jenny, y^ou must e and the the fouu- l in white le goeth." and soon 1 come to ^lice." e, the old and when glory over e a home nd as we , I looked up, and the old man's hands were clasped in earnest supplication— his lips were moving, and I only caught the words, " not as I will, but as Thou wilt." We proceeded on our way in silence for a while, and at length Old Herbert said— • "Little Jenny, perhaps we never shall meet again in life. I feel that the hoiu- is fast approaching when I must lay aside my earthly house of this tabernacle— but you will not forget me, Jenny, and you ^ill not forget my little Alice ; and that you may be happy here and hereafter, be sure that you make Christ your friend and Saviour." We approached the garden gate, and the old man rested once more upon the stone, under the shadow of the large tree— once more I sat upon his knee, and laid my head against the shoulder of his rough coarse coat— onc3 more with his feeble hand he parted back the hair from my forehead, and looked earnestly in my eyes, and then folding me to his heart, he kissed me gently, and put me from his knee. " Let me bless you before we part, to meet no more in life, little Jenny," he said. I dropped upon my knees, and raised my eyes to his, as he laid his trembling hands upon my head, and prayed that I might be blessed and protected by Him who suffered the little children to come unto Him, and for- bade them not; who took them up in His arms, who put His hands upon them, and blessed them. I rose quickly, and once more embracing my old friend, we parted, never again to meet upon earth ! r" ■ ■»' " ■ ■ '!■ " 80 OLD HERBERT. CHAPTER V. OLD HERBERT. I NEVER saw my old friend again. The next day I went to the same place, at the same hour, and sat and waited long and anxiously, but no one came, and I went home sad and weeping. But hope revived with the morning light, and the next day again I went there, and, with my little Bible in my hand, sat reading about what Jesus said of little children, but the good old man appeared not. Some time afterwards my mother proposed that wo ghould visit Charlie's grave. " It is many days since we have been there, little Jenny," said she, " and the evening is very beautiful." " I was there once with Old Herbert, mother, you remember." " Yes, my dear, and you shall tell me more of Old Herbert and his little Alice, as we walk along." We lingered around Charlie's grave, and I brought water from a little brook, and refreshed the flowers, which had drooped in the hot sun — and we talked of heaven and of Charlie, and of little Alice. " And now, mother, I will show you Alice's grave, il jrou will go with me." And I led my mother round to where the old man's household had found a resting-place— but, behold, there was another, a new grave made, close by little Alice's, the fresh green turf neatly laid and freshly watered, and a coarse plain stone placed at the head and foot, and the name of— OLD HERBEnT. 87 WILLIAM HEEBEET, AGED 90 YEARS. " Old Herbert rests at last," said my mother. " Oh, mother, mot' er," I paid, " I did not know ho was dead. Did you know it?" " Yes, my dear. I was with him when he died, and he talked of you and of little Alice, and said I must not tell you that he was dead until his grave was made, and his tombstone up. His body is here, bu t his soul is with God." I sobbed as if my heart would break. ♦ * Dear, kind, good old man. Oh, he was so good, and is BO happy now with Alice. When did he die, mother?" " He died very soon after you saw him last. He waa staying with old Margaret, and she sent for me just after you had gone to bed, and I was with Old Herbert until his eyes were closed in death, and his spirit had gone to God who gave it. He said that my little Jenny promised to plant flowers upon his grave, and on the grave of his little Alice, and I hpve had Kobert bring soLie roots and water here, Jenny, and we will see what we can do to make the old man's grave a pleasant spot." So saying, my mother pointed to a basket wliich I had not noticed before, fragrant with blooming plants and rich earth, and my dear mother helped me to water the roots and plant them firmly beneath the green sod, and we watered them, and it was a spot very fair to see-a pietusauL grave. ■ g „ ' -, . • n.iEimsMJha e •■ ■ 83 OLD HERBERT. On our return, my mother and I rested a while upon the same moss-green stone upon which Old Herbert had KO often sat with me. " Jenny," said my mother gently to me, " I trust you will never forget what Old Herbert said to you— that you will always remember his little Alice, and in early life try to fix your love upon the Saviour, and your thoughts upon the unseen glories of heaven." " I shall love to think of heaven more and more every day, mother, now that not only our little blessed Charlie, but that good old man and Alice are there. I shall come very often, mother, shall I not, to this graveyard, and tend and water these flowers? What a little grave it is that Alice sleeps in, and how short by the side of Old Herbert. But they are both angels now, and what a happy thought that is, mother." " God grant, my dear child, that you and I and all whom we love, may be among those who have a part in the first resurrection, for over them the second death can have no power. Blessed and holy indeed shall we be when God's work of grace is completed, and we are admitted to dwell in his glorious and happy presence." Many, many years have passed since Old Herbert entered upon his rest — ^yet still does the memory of his conversations with me remain fresh upon my mind, as in my early childhood. Of course the wofds are not the same, but the impression of what, he said is perfectly fresh and clear. Among the many little ones who tlirong about my knee, to claim a kiss and a blessing, is one whose hair falls in rich curls upon her snowy shoulders, and wluise OLD HERBERT. 39 ^ eye is as blue as the violet s cup. It is my little Alice. 1 look upon her with all a mother's love, and trust she will become one of those whom the Goou Shepherd loves to take in his arms and carry in his bosom. There is something about her, which tells me she will not long be with me here. I may be wrong, and my fears may be needless— but should my little Alice be taken from me, I shall bear in mind Old Herbert's Alice, and trust that mine, like liis, will be before the Throne and the Lamb. God give me grace to bring them all up in his nurture and admonition, and may I be the instrument employed by him to lead them to the fountain of living waters. Oftentimes 1 gather my little flock about me, at the still hour of Sabbath-eve, and tell many stories which delight their young hearts, but there is none which seems to satisfy them half so much, or which I have to repeat to them half so often, as that of little Ahce and Old Herbert. . ' , »> THE SEXTON'S HYMN. I'VB laid the turf above the child Whose life was but a summer's day; I knew that God, in mercy mild, Had called his infant soul away.- Then wherefore -weep O'er those who sleep?' Their precious dust the Lord will keep. TUl He appear In plory here, Tlie harvest of the world to reap. I've laid the turf above the yonth nuOss cany years to God weiw giftii ; •MVMPiipaiVPMMMMi 40 OLD HERBERT. t ■ Whose peaceful death proclaimed the truth. None die too soon who live for Heavea ITien wherefore weep O'er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory liere, The harvest of the world to reap. I've laid the turf o'er reverend age, Wliose hoary hairs were glory's crown-. The saint had closed his pilgrimage, ^ And gently laid life's burden down. Then wherefore weop O'er those who sleep? Their precious dust the Lord will keep, Till He appear In glory here, The harvest of the world to reap. And soon the grave will close o'er me, ret wherefore mourn my life's decline ? Lord, ransomed, pardoned, saved by Thee, Sleeping or waking, I am Thine I Oh I wherefore sigh For those who die In Christ ? The forms that mouldering lie Shall burst the sod, To meet their God, And mount with seraph wings on high. ■■^sssssa e*^. THE LITTLE MISSMARY. "I SHOULD like to be a missionary, aunt Mary," said little Ellen, "just like uncle William j do you think he would take me with him?" " And leave mamma? " said a kind voice behind her. " Oh, no, mamma, I had quite forgotten that ; I never could leave you ; but still, I do wish 1 were a missionary." " And if my little girl had her wish granted, what would she do ? " " I would tell the little children about ' gentle Jesus,' mamma, and how he loves them ; and I would try to get them to love him, that they might go to heaven." "Well, Ellen, I am willing you should be a missionary; but can you not begin at home ? You can set a good example to your brother ; for if you are dutiful and affectionate, he will try to imitate you ; and as he cannot read yet, you can teach him your texts and hymns, and tell him the Bible stories you are so fond of." " Oh, thank you, mamma, I can do that ; and now, will you give me a nice little verse to teach Willie ? " "Will this do, NeUy? 'Little children, love one another.' " Ellen looked very grave, for she remembered that often, when her little brother teased h«r, she was apt to get angiy, and forget altogether that there was such, a verse in the Bible. However, she went to look for Willie: and when she had found Mm, they sat down together, and ^ 1 % . j 4=i 42 THE LITTLE MHSIONARY. she taught hiiu the text ; and then in her own simple ■way tried to explain it. Poor Ellen ! the day so well begun was not to end without a trial of her love. When she went to play with Willie after dinner, he was sitting on the nursery floor, tearing out leaf after leaf from her pretty " Bible Story- Book." " Oh, Willie, Willie, you naughty, wicked boy !" she cried, " how could you spoil my book?" " Little children, love one another," whispered conscience ; but Ellen was not ready to listen to it. But when she saw how grieved her mamma looked, and heard her say, " Ellen, is thcU a missionary spirit ? " she was very, very sort-y, and ran away weeping bitterly. When her mamma had quieted Willie, and tolJ him how wrong it was to destroy his sister's things, she went to look for Ellen. Where do you think she found her ? She was kneeling by the side of her little bed and praying that Jesus would forgive her naughty temper, and help her to overcome it. And that kind Saviour, who listens to the little ones when they pray, heard her, and granted her request ; for after that time, though harsh words sometimes came to her lips, she tried earnestly to check them, and she almost always succeeded. Day after day, too, she continued her " missionary " work, and talked to Willie, and prayed with him, and taught him to pray for hims^j for she knew that if all the good people in the world were to pray for us ever so much, we must pray for ourselves also. It was not long before Ellen's cheeks began to grow pale, and she became weak and ill. For a short time ^ she was able to go out as usual, but at last she could not «ven leave her room or her crib. Her little friends THE LITTLE MISSIONART. 48 but and kind relatives came to visit her ; and few of them left without giving her a book, or a text, or a kind in- vitation to love the Saviour. At length a day came when Ellen must leave her mamma. She stood by her bedside, and papa and aunt Mary were there ; but they could not ease her pain, or go with her through the valley of the shadow of death. " Mamma, papa," she said, " what are you crying for ! I am not afraid. * He shall carry the lambs in his bosom.* I am one of His lambs, and I want to go to him ; won't you let me ? " They could not answer her, and she went on, " Sing for me, dear mamma ; sing * Bright glory.' " Her poor mamma tried, but sobs choked her voice, and she could not " Papa, will you sing ? Aunt, will you ? Nurse, will you sing ' Joyful ' for me ? " All tried, but all failed ; so little Ellen raised herself and sung : — " Little children will be there. Who have sought the Lord by prayer, And trusted in his grace. Oh, that will be joyful, Joyftil, joyful, joyful 1 Oh, that will be joyful I when we meet — " The 'ittle head fell back upon the pillow, and the song begun on earth was finished in " bright glory," for little Ellen was dead. Ui xx: -^^ THE SETTING SUK •' Mamma," said a little girl, " why do you go always to the flower-garden just now, after tea, before we go to bed ? Why do you stand still so long, looking always to the same place in the sky ? " " Do you not know why ? " " I think I can guess, — because it is so pretty. I often notice how the clouds that had been so dark and com,mo7i-lookmg all day, get all purple and orange then, like the colours in your Indian shawl. Is that the rea- son, mamma ? " " It is one reason, my dear. I like to look at pretty things, as well as you and Harry do. But this evening you shall sit up half an hour later ; and put on your warm cloak, and come with me to the garden." It is evening, and Mary and her mother are alone in the flower^pgarden. " Now, my child, look towards the hills in the west, and tell me what you see." " mamma, it is beautiful ! The sun has qviitefalleii dowriy almost touching the hills, instead of being above our heaas in the sky ! And those hits of gold cloud, just above, are so lovely !— Look ! I can bear to look at the sun now, though it is still so very bright ! And how it is moving, and quite rownd, like the moon I " *' Is it quite round now, Mary?" " No ; a bit of the mountain has got above it, and it^ THE SETTING SUN". ;i5 cut oflf a part, and it is getting less aidless, and yet moving still." " Where is our favourite Schihallion now ?" " I cannr ' see it ; it is all hidden with the bright- ness." " Yes ; but in a few minutes the sun will have gone down quite behind Schihallion, and then the mountain will appear again, dark against the sky." " You are right, mamma ; — there, the pretty gold sun is getting less and less; and now it is quite gone; and there is Schihallion again. Oh! how beautiful! Do you see this every evening ? " " Always something beautiful, but not often so clear and bright as this. And now, can my little girl tell me what it makes me think about?" " I do not know, mamma. What is it ? " " It makes me think about dying; the day of life being over, and the time which the pretty hymn speaks of for falling "asleep in Jesus" being come. And I chink I should like to die like that sun, — to go down as calmly and brightly into the grave, and leave a golden memory behind me." ♦* " Mamma," said Mary, looking very grave; " you often speak about dying ; but does it not make you very sad to think of leaving all this pretty world, and lying down in the dark grave we saw open lasfweek in the church-yard?" " Why should it, my love ? Does it make you sad to see the sun go down as it did just now ? " '* Oh ! no ; there is nothing melancholy in that." " Why not ? It will soon be quite dark and cold, and we could not sec the flowers any more, and you must go out of the garden, and go to bed in the dark nursery." 46 THE SETTING SUN. i Ah ! but you know, mamma, I shall sleep quite . soundly; and then when 1 awake in the morning, the 8un will be up again above the trees as bright as ever." " Yes, that is true. But if you thought the sun were never to get up again, then you would feel sad to see it go down." "Oh! yes, indeed." " And are those who know and love Je*u9 always to remain in the dark grave ? " " No, mamma. The Bible says that they shall all rise bright and beautiful again, on the resurrection morning," "Then why should the tl^ought of dying be sad to th£m, my dear Mary? Did I ever tell you of a pretty picture whicli I saw last winter in the Exhibition ? It was that of ,fc beautiful lady lying on a bed. At first she seemed just sleeping softly; but when you looked nearer, she was so pale and calm, you saw she was dead. The window of the room was open, and through it you ^saw a bright golden evening sky, the sun going down as it did just now. 1 could have looked at that picture fur an hour, it was all so peaceful and beautiful. And below it there was a verse from the Bible written : * Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shaM be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mou^inpshall be ended.' " " Oh ! mamma, wlral'a beautiful verae ! May I learn it for you tcjrmorrow ihoming ? " "Yes, m^^'; you will find it in Isaiah. And now It is time for^ to go to bed ; but we shall come back here some oti^ evening, and speak of these things LITTLE LUCY, AND THB SONO SnB SUNG. I. A LITTLE child, six stunmars old, So thoughtful and so fair, There seemed about her pleasant ways A more than childish air, Was sitting on a summer eve Beneath a spreading tree. Intent upon an ancient boolc Which lay upon her knee. She turned each page with careful hand. And strained her sight to see, Until the drowsy shadows slept Upon the grassy lea; Then closed the book, and upward looked. And straight began to sing A simple verse of hopeful love — This very childish thing: •• While here below, how sweet tr know His wondrous love and story; And then, through grace, to see His tac^ And live with Him in glory 1 " IL That little child, one dreary night Of winter wind and storm, Was tossing on a weaiy coucb Her weak and wasted form ; And in her pain, and in its pause. But clasped her hands in prayer—* (Strange.that we had no thoughts of heaven, While hers were only there) — 43 LITTLE LUCY. i Until she said, *' mother dear, How sad you seem to be ! Have you forgotten that 11 b said, ' Let children come to me ? ' Dear mother, bring the blessed Book; Come, mother, let us sing." And then again, with faltering tongue, She sung- that childish thing: •» While here below, how sweet to know His wondrous love and story ; And then, through grace, to see His face, And live with Hlra In glory I " III. Underneath a spreading tree A narrow mound is seen. Which first was covered by the snow, Then blossomed into green : Here first I heard that childish voice That sings on earth no more ;— In heaven It hath a richer tone, And sweeter than before : For those who know His love below— So runs the wondrous story— In heaven, through grace, shall see HU fiusa, And dweU with Him in glory. :■ I - I '•£1 oca, 'M-^ ^A <* -<*r J^ '^/^ I y ^T.^-'^^^^-t!^"