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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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AS A FALLING STAR 
 
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 ELEANOR GAyLORD PHELPS 
 
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AS A FALLING STAR 
 i. 
 
 " One night, as old Saint Peter slept, 
 He left the gates of Heaven ajar, 
 When through a little angel crept, 
 And came to earth as a falling star." 
 - E. C. M. 
 
 OHN and I have come to be 
 very dear friends. This I 
 realize more and more daily. 
 A very deep love seems to 
 have grown out of our per- 
 fect understanding of one another. Was it 
 only by chance that this dear love and friend- 
 ship was made ? No, I prefer to believe that 
 an overruling Spirit sent me to him ; that his 
 good angel prompted him to stretch out his 
 baby hands to mine, and to look beseechingly 
 
12 ft* a falling &tat 
 
 into my eyes. I could not resist inquiring of 
 the nurse about him, I am sure. She shook 
 her head very slowly, and said nothing for a 
 moment to my inquiry ; and then she replied, 
 very gently — 
 
 u Miss Eleanore, we know nothing. We 
 found him on the hospital steps some morn- 
 ings since. He was rolled up in a bundle of 
 very fine linen, and dressed in very delicate 
 lawn. The undergarments were all exquisitely 
 hemstitched and daintily embroidered. When 
 we picked him up his great brown eyes looked 
 wonderingly into ours, and then a sweet smile 
 covered his perfect face." While the nurse 
 was telling me this, he turned over in his crib 
 and stretched out his hand across the coverlid 
 toward mine. The very light of the angels 
 seemed to shine from his beautiful counte- 
 nance, and I followed an irresistible inclina- 
 tion to kneel beside the crib. The little eyelids 
 closed, and the exquisitely chiselled features 
 
&g a ifaUinu &tat 13 
 
 were the picture of peace. He seemed soothed 
 by my presence, or I fancied that he did, and 
 a deep love for the forlorn little one crept into 
 my soul in that moment and I lingered on my 
 knees for a little time. And a silent prayer 
 was on my lips and in my heart for one of 
 God's little ones. 
 
 "Ah, is he ill, nurse?" I found myself 
 asking. 
 
 " No, not ill, Miss Eleanore, but very un- 
 fortunate." 
 
 And I could not but shudder, for intuitively 
 I seemed to feel that some member of his 
 fragile body was lacking in vigor and health. 
 
 " One little leg is withered, Miss Eleanore, 
 and he will never walk without crutches, so 
 the physicians say." 
 
 And the pathetic eyes opened once again, 
 as the tiny fingers clutched at my hand ; and 
 then and there I promised myself the future 
 care of little "John," for so I named him. Of 
 
H ft* a falling Star 
 
 a sudden Andrea del Sarto's child Saint John 
 came before me, and the thought with it : 
 " Great Master, that little face that you put 
 upon canvas so many years ago has become 
 an ideal child countenance in the heart of 
 many a woman." And with the spiritual 
 countenance of little Saint John the Baptist 
 still in my mind, I could not help making a 
 silent comparison. 
 
 u You resemble that face, my baby John. 
 My dream is to be realized in part, for we 
 have found each other. And now, with God's 
 permission, I may call you c my John.' I 
 shall never forget that bleak day one Novem- 
 ber when I brought you home with me, and 
 you nestled down in my arms, and I fancied 
 that perhaps you realized that I was lonely, 
 that I needed you, and for this you might 
 grow to love me. We are one another's 
 natural protectors, John. God sent you to 
 me, did he not ? " 
 
&0 a jfaUing fetar 15 
 
 And the infant's response was only a sad 
 sweet little smile, which lingered for a moment 
 like a truant shadow, and then died away and 
 left a depth of suffering on the even then 
 patient face. 
 
 u I never had to think of any other but 
 myself, before you came, little John. Mother 
 and father ever made a pet of me, and every 
 thought was for my happiness. And Tom ! 
 ah, he loved me, too. But they have all gone 
 away, never to return except in the spirit, 
 little John." 
 
 What a blessing it is, Eleanore, that a child 
 has come into your life, that it may cease to 
 be a lonely, barren existence, — and such it 
 was before you came, with mother, father, and 
 sweetheart gone away to the land from which, 
 I am certain, little John came. God knew 
 that I was all alone, that my life had come 
 to be a very narrow one, that my sorrow 
 was very great, that I was fast becoming 
 
16 a* a jFalltna; &tar 
 
 very selfish — and He sent little John to me. 
 
 My little apartment never before looked so 
 attractive as it did on that evening when I 
 brought John, the dear child with the withered 
 leg, away from the hospital and home with me. 
 The night was a clear one, and the stars made 
 both the heavens and the earth luminous by 
 their brightness. As we passed along up the 
 avenue, I could not but glance out of the 
 carriage door, and doing so, was just in time 
 to note a falling star come to earth, and I 
 like to fancy that there was a deep spiritual 
 significance in the fact of its having appeared 
 on that very night. The gates of Heaven 
 were left unbarred, surely, and the angel child 
 must have gotten by Saint Peter and fluttered 
 to this world, — and could it be that I was 
 holding him in my arms? 
 
 The good nurse came from the hospital 
 with us, but she retired at an early hour, 
 leaving John and me and the glowing embers 
 
&0 a Jfalling &tar 17 
 
 to each other. I lifted him from his crib, 
 when she had closed the door of her chamber 
 behind her, and held him there in my arms. 
 For the first time the full responsibility of the 
 trust came to me, and I realized that to me 
 was given in keeping the care of one of God's 
 very elect. 
 
 Little lips, they shall never know the word 
 " mother," since it is " His will be done." 
 Your mother has put you from her because 
 of your deformity, it would seem, and I am 
 only God's stewardess. I believe that the 
 angels have asked me to stand guardian for 
 them, and with the help of the Mighty Host, 
 I will. 
 
II. 
 
 'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 
 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And cometh from afar ; 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From Ood, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy." 
 
 — Wordsworth. 
 
 HE days are much alike for 
 John and me, but such happy 
 days! Never has there come 
 a moment in which I have 
 regretted finding, taking, 
 knowing, loving, little John. He does n't 
 seem to grow as fast as most children do, but 
 the spirit quite developes beyond human con- 
 ception, and sometimes I fear that the little 
 soul will become too great for the fragile body 
 to harbor, and that he will fleet away beyond 
 my grasp. 
 
ft* a jFalltng &tat 19 
 
 John is getting to that age when he wishes 
 to call me by some name, and I fancied 
 one day, not long ago, that he attempted to 
 pucker his little lips into the word "moth- 
 er " ; but I knew that I must never encourage 
 this, though the temptation was very great. 
 It is only natural for every woman, some time 
 in her life, to wish a child to utter that word 
 to her. If John were as strong of body as 
 most children, I might have been tempted to 
 allow the word to form upon his baby lips, 
 but I knew that he must never have the 
 mental sorrow of the question, " Are you my 
 mother ? " But the day will come when little 
 John will reason for himself, and when I look 
 into his sorrowful brown eyes, I sometimes 
 fancy that I can discover an inquiring expres- 
 sion there. And then, after a moment's 
 thought, I realize that he is only a babe, and 
 that I am interpreting my own fears. 
 
III. 
 
 "My soul is not untutored now, 
 
 Even words and tongues for me have might ; 
 My thought has learn'd a calmer flow, 
 And the dark waters leap in light." 
 
 — Cecil Alexander. 
 
 EOPLE often come to see 
 John and me. Our apart- 
 ment is very attractive, or at 
 least we think so. John's 
 room is bright and cheerful, 
 and the white curtains seem to reflect only the 
 purity of his spotless soul. The walls are 
 covered with the most attractive pictures that 
 I could find for a boy's room. 
 
 This afternoon, several of my old school 
 friends who are now married were in to see 
 me. They impressed me as being so happy, 
 and I can but think of what my own life 
 would have been, had Tom lived. 
 
 Dr. Leech, the ward physician at the hos- 
 
80 a jfaUtng &tat 21 
 
 pital, dropped in to chat with us for a while 
 just after sunset. He always seems to enjoy 
 our tea and our books and our pictures, and 
 hearing of little John. I believe he loves the 
 boy dearly. It was he who first discovered 
 him that morning when his unnatural parents 
 had left him to shiver on the hospital steps. 
 Dr. Leech is a very tender man with children, 
 and with other people there is a charm of 
 reserve and timidity which we seldom see, 
 alas ! in the modern successful man. I think 
 that I enjoy his companionship because he 
 knew Tom, and it was he who created the 
 diversion for me of going to the hospital to 
 read and chat with the little ones. Precious 
 John ! if it had not been for Dr. Leech, I 
 might never have known, never have found 
 you. 
 
IV. 
 
 'Now fades the last long streak of 
 Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
 About the flowering squares, and thick 
 By ashen roots the violets blow." 
 
 — Tennyson. 
 
 HE days are warm and spring- 
 like. The sleeping year has 
 awakened from its long win- 
 ter's slumber, and the gentle 
 breezes of Spring have fanned 
 into being all the lesser manifestations of the 
 gladsome, hopeful season; and with these 
 spring days, it seems to me, John's soul has 
 had a new awakening, too. This morning he 
 called me to him, and used my name, for he 
 knows it well now, and says it quite as plainly 
 as one older would. 
 
 u Eleanore, John wants you." 
 Perhaps I should feel superstitious about the 
 boy's using his name in speaking of himself, 
 
&0 a falling &tar 23 
 
 but I am not. He is very respectful to others, 
 and seems to possess a rare sense of avoiding 
 even familiarity in speaking of himself. This 
 reverence which he appears to have for every 
 creature is as unusual as it is refreshing. He 
 has learned to know my favorite picture now, 
 and when I ask him which of all the others I 
 most like, his frail little hand will wander 
 from frame to frame, and finally rest upon 
 the beautiful features of Andrea del Sarto's 
 little " Saint John." 
 
 The nurse has left us now, and I take sole 
 care of little John, which is for me the sweet- 
 est of tasks. We sit much of the time in the 
 high window-seat overlooking the house-tops 
 of this vast city, and together watch the sun- 
 set and the horizon lighted up by its last 
 wonderfully colored rays of light. And he 
 coos and laughs, and often relaxes into a 
 spirit of seeming thoughtfulness, and then 
 
 OF 
 
24 a$ a falling fetar 
 
 nestles closely to me, and I to him, for we 
 love each other dearly. 
 
 Tom comes to me sometimes in my dreams 
 and seems to say, u Eleanore, it is better so," 
 and I fear that I awake choking. Tom was 
 all that I hope little John will grow to be — 
 a poetic, noble soul, with a heart as good and 
 as true as ever God gave me the lot to know 
 and love. 
 
 It is Tom's birthday. He would be thirty- 
 five if he were living. Let us pretend that 
 he is, John. But what would he say to you 
 here? You were not mine when he left me. 
 I can picture easily now how naturally he 
 would walk into the room, as he used to into 
 our library at home when I was a girl, and 
 my parents were with me. 
 
 M Ah, Eleanore," he would say, u and what 
 have you been about all this long day, my 
 sweetheart ? Tell me about yourself, and 
 
ft* a falling &tat 25 
 
 then read to me, while I lose myself for a 
 moment in the world of the flame — with 
 your permission, dear." 
 
 Tom was always gallant, John ; a true 
 gentleman always is. Ah, but your baby 
 understanding does n't grasp what I am saying. 
 How could I expect it to ? Forgive me, dear 
 little one. You have so taken the others' 
 places, those who have gone away from me, 
 that I talk to you, in my half-spoken reveries, 
 as I used to with them. 
 
 The Easter-lilies are very nearly dead. 
 What short-lived waxy creations they are. 
 But I love them, for we were to have been 
 married at Easter-time. How majestically 
 the lilies would have bowed their heads to 
 Tom. They, I am sure, would have recog- 
 nized his goodness, John, just as I did. 
 
1 Ah, what pleasant visions haunt me 
 
 As I gaze upon the sea, 
 All the old romantic legends, 
 All my dreams, come back to me." 
 
 — Longfellow. 
 
 UMMER has come. Our 
 apartment in town is closed. 
 The books are shut in be- 
 hind glass doors. The clock 
 with the chimes, that stands 
 in the hall, has run down. The pictures 
 hang unrecognized as old friends, and the 
 window-seat is unoccupied, for John and I 
 are in the country, by the sea. He is growing 
 much these summer days. A little country 
 boy in blue jeans wheels him about in the 
 sunshine, over the farms and through the 
 village streets. 
 
 John smiles at the passers-by, and when 
 some fond, doting spinster offers him a bunch 
 
8L0 a JFalltng &tat 27 
 
 of her choicest posies from her aristocratic 
 garden, he kisses her hand and says, u John 
 thanks you," in such a manner as to charm 
 the kind-hearted woman and make it her chief 
 delight to tell her neighbors and friends of 
 the occurrence many times during the follow- 
 ing weeks. 
 
 Long Island is very beautiful, and this 
 quaint little village by the sea, the oldest on 
 the island, has its bit of history and its ro- 
 mances. There are four churches here in 
 this village, and John makes a tour of them 
 all on Sundays. The clergymen have taken 
 a very great fancy to the boy, and John is 
 yet too young to be annoyed by religious 
 problems. He is almost five now, and his 
 beautiful eyes are full of a remarkable depth 
 of feeling. 
 
 Patience ! What a lesson it is that one 
 learns from my John. His soul seems to 
 rise above his bodily suffering, and the very 
 
28 a* a jfalitng fetat 
 
 light of heaven seems to shine from under the 
 long lashes that fringe the deep brown eyes. 
 His blue linen suits he calls " white caps." 
 
 " Eleanore," he said to me one day, when 
 we were seated on the drifting sands and 
 playing with the shells that had come in with 
 the last rise of the tide, " the waves have 
 white faces to-day." 
 
 " John, if it were the ocean instead of the 
 bay, I should call them ' white caps.' " 
 
 " White caps, did you say, Eleanore ? Then 
 my sailor suits have white caps, too, have n't 
 they ? " 
 
 The people of the village are very kind to 
 John, and he likes them genuinely. We were 
 on the meadows one day not long since, and 
 a dear old farmer stood near us, swinging his 
 scythe to the music of the splashing of the 
 waters on the shore not far distant. John, 
 in his effort to reach the old man, slipped 
 from his cart and fell forward. The kind 
 
&g a falling fetar 29 
 
 old farmer put down the scythe on the newly- 
 cut meadow-grass, and hurried toward us. 
 
 u What a beautiful boy, lady. 'Spose 
 you 're from 'York. Most all those who are 
 a-summerin' 'bout here are from thar. Ah, 
 did it hurt you, little man ? Are you stayin' 
 at Bay Side Farms?" 
 
 And on my response that we were stopping 
 with my grandfather up the lane a way, at 
 South Harbor, the old man seemed to have 
 heard of us before. 
 
 u Oh, you be the good young lady that I 
 heerd tell of who lives for the little cripple. 
 Where 's the young man who was follerin' 
 around after you when you used to come 
 down here on the island? — Mr. Tom Mc- 
 Gilvey, I believe, was his name. I was laid 
 up with the rheumatiz that summer, and as 
 for gettin' 'bout ag'in I dun give up all hope. 
 But, do you know, that young man of yours 
 cheered me up most wonderful." 
 
30 ft* a falling &tar 
 
 But he must have caught the look of pain, 
 mingled with interest, on my face, for he 
 ceased to speak, turned around with his back 
 to my face, and looked away apologetically 
 across the bay, and at the sails fleeting 
 over the waters toward Shelter Island, as 
 the sea-gulls had before them. I could not 
 answer him for a time, and then I remember 
 saying : 
 
 u Ah, those were very happy days, Captain. 
 Mr. Tom McGilvey has gone away. You, 
 perhaps, have not heard. He will never again 
 come to the shores of your beautiful island. 
 He died at the end of that summer you speak 
 of, and I have been, oh, so lonely ever since. " 
 
 "An' your mother and father, they 're gone 
 too, I heerd tell," he continued, turning about 
 and looking toward me, his eyes full of sym- 
 pathy, and his lips quivering for very pity of 
 forlorn me. u Well, young lady, you is cer- 
 tainly brave, — but the boy, he loves you," he 
 
ft* a jFalltng &tar 31 
 
 said, laying his rough brown hand on John's 
 shoulders. 
 
 The child turned his little face toward me, 
 then looking into the Captain's kind old face, 
 and pressing my hand very gently, he said : 
 
 "John loves Eleanore, oh, so much, Cap- 
 tain, and everybody does." 
 
 Oh, the innocence of a child's adoration. 
 Little John, you can never know how near 
 being an angel you are. One has but to look 
 into your saintly face to realize that there is a 
 greater depth of feeling there than in that of 
 the average child, perfect of body. 
 
 John does n't seem to tan as most chil- 
 dren do. The sunlight appears to play only 
 with his dark brown locks and create won- 
 derful strands of gold to light up the duller 
 ones. 
 
 The Captain is becoming a great friend 
 of John's and mine. He has a sail-boat, in 
 which he promises to take us across the bay, 
 
32 &0 a ifalling &tar 
 
 some fine day, before we return to town. He 
 calls John " Laddie " now, for he says John 
 is too harsh a name for an " angel-child " — 
 one so fragile as this little boy. I think the 
 Captain must have had Scotch forefathers, 
 for he delights in the use of some few Scotch 
 words and phrases. I am always u lassie " 
 to him, though the name ill fits me, as I am 
 no longer a girl. 
 
 The sunsets are very beautiful here on the 
 island. Several of my friends urged me to 
 join them the other afternoon in going to the 
 Sound Beach for a picnic supper, near the old 
 mill. They think me very dull and dreamy, 
 I am sure, and perhaps unsocial, since Tom 
 left me. I finally decided to join them, 
 though it cost me an effort. Little John 
 clung to me some time when I told him that 
 Grandmother would put him to sleep that 
 night, but never a pout or a protest from 
 
ft* a JFalltng &tat 33 
 
 John. He only smiled, and when I kissed 
 him good-night and started to leave him, 
 he waved his tiny hand to me. There is 
 much to live for when a little child makes 
 an effort to sacrifice his pleasure for what 
 he supposes is yours, and though everybody 
 who once made my life seem very full of 
 joy and gladness has departed from me, and 
 everything that once was most dear has gone 
 out like a candle in the night, still now there 
 is a new flame that prompts me to live and 
 with greater usefulness, for the beautiful young 
 life of another's fills mine with its almost spir- 
 itual presence, and it comes over me that I 
 am very bountifully blessed. 
 
 John is becoming very fond of the country. 
 His little go-cart is filled with flowers and 
 meadow grasses and " cats and kittens," a 
 kind of fur-like weed which he fondles as 
 he does the animal for which it is named. 
 
34 ft* a falling &tar 
 
 Now that the golden-rod is in bloom, he finds 
 himself a Croesus enthroned among his golden 
 possessions. 
 
 u Eleanore loves flowers, too," he said to 
 me only yesterday. 
 
 " Yes, John, they please me. But you — 
 you delight me far more, my boy,'* I found 
 myself making reply. 
 
 The other afternoon he called me to him, 
 and in the door of the vine-covered country- 
 house, we listened to the striking of the town 
 clock in the village, some distance away. 
 I could but picture the long ago when I, a 
 little girl, went running to school lest the nine 
 strokes of that clock should have sounded ere 
 I reached the academy. Ah, those mornings 
 of long ago ! They loom up on Memory's 
 horizon, and a glow remains which makes 
 me remember very vividly their many joys 
 and their petty sorrows and trials. 
 
 " Eleanore, like our chimes at home in the 
 
&0 a jfalling; &tat 35 
 
 hall," I heard little John remarking, his sweet 
 beautiful face turned upward and the expres- 
 sion of interest suffusing his every feature. 
 He, too, was in the power of association, 
 though how different from my own. 
 
 The Summer is fast changing its robe. The 
 days are shortening, and we begin to need 
 our wraps in the late afternoon. The sunsets 
 come earlier and John seems so restless. So 
 we must very soon be going back to our 
 small apartment in town. The hollyhocks 
 are fading and losing some of their spinster- 
 like dignity, the phlox is going to seed, and 
 the French lilacs are drooping from their 
 stems. Even the tiger-lily stalks stand 
 flowerless. The sea-weed drifts high upon 
 the beach. The farmers have begun to put 
 on their quaint little thumb huskers and kneel 
 upon mother earth in the desolate fields. 
 The orchards have an odor of cider about 
 
36 &g a falling; &tar 
 
 them, for the presses are at work, and the 
 apples lie in quantities under the dusty boughs. 
 The peaches are in abundance, and the grapes 
 hang heavily from the vines. The lumbering 
 wagon of the ice-man seems to make fewer 
 trips each week through the village streets 
 and lanes. The townsfolk are turning their 
 faces westward, and the autumn breezes blow 
 vindictively about the old light-house at 
 Horton's Point. 
 
 Our summer has passed very sweetly on 
 this dear old island, but now we must say 
 good-bye to country lanes and to walks by 
 the sea, for John seems a bit weary, and Dr. 
 Leech recommends " treatments," and hopes 
 that the little fellow will use crutches very 
 soon. I think that it will grieve me sadly to 
 see the child struggle with these ugly things. 
 But little John will be patient, — of this we 
 are at all times sure. 
 
 Good-bye for this summer, beautiful island. 
 
SI* a ifalitng: &tat 37 
 
 You and your good people have been sweet 
 indeed to John and me, and we thank you 
 deeply. Why, even the leaves are turning 
 and falling over the way, and the hickory 
 logs crackle and snap as the flames are carried 
 upward through the old brick chimney. 
 
 "Often I think of the beautiful town 
 That is seated by the sea; 
 Often my thoughts go up and down 
 The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
 And my youth comes back to me." 
 
VI. 
 
 1 Since my young days of passion, joy, or pain, 
 
 Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
 And both may jar, — it may be, that in vain 
 I would essay, as I have sung to sing." 
 
 — Byron. 
 
 'OHN is radiant in the joys 
 of Christmas. The tree and 
 the toys which Dr. Leech 
 bestowed upon him have 
 given him a genuine child- 
 throb of joy. I fear that if he is soon not 
 said nay to he will make himself ill eating so 
 many sweets. 
 
 The Doctor dined with us to-day, and has 
 been teaching John to use his crutches. 
 When the Doctor had placed one under one 
 arm, and was offering him the second, he 
 hesitated for a moment, and then beckoned 
 me to him. 
 
ft* a falling &tat 39 
 
 " Eleanore have one, too." 
 
 The tears came to my eyes in spite of 
 every effort. Would that I might share the 
 bodily inconvenience and suffering of little 
 John ! But finally my courage came, and I 
 took it and got down to fit the short little 
 crutch, and hobbled around to his amusement. 
 He laughed, and his sweet voice filled the 
 rooms with the merriment I was causing, 
 though he realized not that he was making 
 light of his own misfortune. 
 
 Dr. Leech has grown very near to me 
 since John came into my life. It is to him 
 that I go for advice concerning the child, and 
 sometimes he ventures to advise me to see 
 more of people ! Ah, but he does not under- 
 stand ! When the boy is older, and a little 
 stronger, we shall travel. New sights will 
 amuse him. It, perhaps, may best be soon, 
 for he seems to have developed restlessness to 
 
40 £0 a Jfallins &tat 
 
 an alarming degree, and I fancy that a decided 
 change of atmosphere and surroundings may 
 soothe the boy. 
 
 A tiny little miss who lives over the way 
 from us is John's little playmate, and our 
 nearest neighbor. She seemed fearful of John 
 at first, his serious eyes seemed to sadden her. 
 John thought it was his crutches, and tried to 
 hide them so as not to distress the tiny young 
 lady, but now that she knows the child they 
 are devoted friends, and she cares for him 
 and protects him, as he would protect her if 
 he were not hampered by bodily ills. They 
 sit together in the high window-seats, and 
 advance infantile theories about all that they 
 see, looking out over the house-tops. It 
 charms me to listen to them, she is so gay 
 and healthy. There is a charm and brilliancy 
 about quaint Alice that seems to almost fas- 
 cinate little John. 
 
 I sometimes wonder what manner of par- 
 
ftg a JFalling &tai 41 
 
 ents John's were to have cast him out because 
 of his deformity. There is a bitter truth, 
 and I rejoice that I know it not. It will be 
 a cruel duty to some day have to explain to 
 the boy that we are one another's only by 
 adoption, and God help me ! 
 
 The child spends part of these long wintry 
 days in learning to read and write. A sweet 
 young woman with a wonderful knowledge 
 of children is guiding him in this new road. 
 
 Last night a heavy snow fell, and the 
 flakes scattered like so much confetti at a 
 European fete. John expressed a desire to 
 catch a few, for he said that they were the 
 stars falling from the sky. Little John, you 
 surely must be the little angel who fell as a 
 star to earth while Saint Peter slept. Your 
 thoughts seem almost supernatural. 
 
 Our grate-fire has been so comfortable 
 to-day, and John and I have spent most of 
 the day on a swinging divan, reading weird 
 
42 ft* a falling; fbtat 
 
 tales of strange animals in far-off lands. Alice 
 and Dr. Leech have both been in to see us. 
 The Doctor plays sweetly, and to-day he sat 
 down before the keys and played that ex- 
 quisite prayer from Lohengrin which would 
 bring the vilest sinner to the seat of repent- 
 ance, so strongly does it work upon the very 
 best in a being. The prayer is still ringing 
 in my ears as a forest echo seems to sound and 
 sound again after a storm has passed. The 
 children's chatter began again as soon as the 
 final chord was struck, and I found myself 
 away in a revery which took me back to the 
 sweet past, which holds nearly all of the bless- 
 ings that were ever mine, — holds them fast 
 in its tenacious clutches, and suddenly yields 
 them up to either aggravate or soothe me, as 
 Fate will ! 
 
 How exquisite the bitter-sweet on the book- 
 case is ; its glow of color seems to give me 
 new courage. I met some of Tom's and 
 
ft* a jFailing &tat 43 
 
 -my old friends this morning. Such content- 
 ment seems to be theirs. Surely it would 
 have been the same with me had the dear 
 sweetheart lived. But I am fading, oh, so 
 fast. Only this morning John was stroking 
 my hair, and finding a gray lock he played 
 with it lovingly for a moment, and then pat- 
 ting my head once more before speaking, a 
 look of surprise coming over his face, he said : 
 
 " Eleanore, it is like the silver shells we 
 found last summer on Peconic Bay Beach." 
 
 u Yes, and yours, dear, are like the gold 
 ones we found on the same day along the 
 same shore." 
 
 How the sunshine likes those golden curls. 
 
 It is a weary wait, and yet for John's sake 
 it is made possible. I played upon my harp 
 this morning for the first time in many years. 
 John stood on his little crutches amazed and 
 delighted, and of a sudden I realized how 
 selfish in my sorrow I had been all these 
 
44 &0 a falling fetar 
 
 months, for I should not have allowed my 
 grief to have thrown shadows on this precious 
 little life. Not since that afternoon, too 
 grievous to recall, when word was brought 
 to me of Tom's accident and for me to hurry 
 to him, had I played until now. I hardly 
 believed that I could again, but, — 
 
 u Eleanore, play more, dearest. It makes 
 both little legs feel alike. You've never 
 made music for John before. " 
 
 After this I cannot deny him pleasure, in 
 harboring a sentiment or inclination of my 
 own. His ear for time is very correct, and 
 occasionally he seizes one crutch and waves 
 it through space as an orchestra leader does 
 his baton, and, thus supported, I play on. 
 
 It is once more Easter, and the day has 
 been a happy one for John and me. This 
 morning he found, among a lot of old cards 
 which I gave him to amuse himself with 
 
ft* a falling &tat 45 
 
 during the wait between the end of service 
 and our dinner hour, one decorated with an 
 allegorical representation of the rejoicing 
 caused in heaven upon the Resurrection morn. 
 A beautiful angel was playing the harp. He 
 did not quite seem to grasp the meaning. 
 
 u What are you doing, Eleanore, among 
 the clouds playing your harp ? " 
 
 " That is not I, dearie." 
 
 What a beautiful world this would be if we 
 were all as innocent as this little child. But 
 the years are few and the time short before 
 the secret guarded so long by his good angel 
 is out : that lam only a selfish, sinning mortal, 
 hiding my sorrow in his young life. Ah, 
 may I be none the less dear to him when the 
 ideal veil of perfection falls and he sees me 
 as I am. 
 
VII. 
 
 ' Ob, Autumn ! why so soon 
 
 Depart the hues that make thy forests glad, 
 Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, 
 And leave thee wild and sad ? " 
 
 — Bryant. 
 
 HE summers come and th? 
 
 winters go, and autumn is 
 
 here again. The maple 
 
 leaves cover the avenue 
 
 with a cloth of red and 
 
 gold. The birds begin to flap their wings in 
 
 restlessness. Soon they will fly to warmer 
 
 climes, and all nature will find itself songless 
 
 except for human efforts. John and I are 
 
 restless, too. His frail body seems to illy 
 
 stand our winters, and his little face grows 
 
 the more beautiful each day. I cling to this 
 
 " Gentle boy, with soft and silken locks, 
 A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes," 
 
 almost as helplessly as he to me, and we are 
 
£0 a failing &tar w 
 
 each other's. For how long ? comes the 
 faint, answerless question. 
 
 Dr. Leech has built up a barrier between 
 himself and me. He has attempted to wear 
 poor Tom's glasses, and I can never look 
 back responsively, for all my hopes, all my 
 life, are centred in little John. Why will 
 he urge my shattered, half-spent life playing 
 any part in his full and hopeful one. Ah 
 me, few women understand most men, until 
 it is too late. He claims that his life has 
 been a very empty one, that mine has been 
 so full. Full? — full of the deepest sorrow 
 and the deepest love for my crippled angel. 
 Was it the fall from the sky that gave you 
 all this suffering ? John loves me ; John 
 needs me ; John shall have me. 
 
 We are about to start on a long journey 
 over the seas, where John will, I hope, grow 
 stronger, I freer, — and Dr. Leech will learn to 
 realize that the impossible is the unchangeable. 
 
 Of THE 
 
VIII. 
 
 "Far to the right, where Apenniue ascends 
 Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
 Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
 Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, 
 While oft some temple's mouldering tops between, 
 With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
 The sons of Italy were surely blest." 
 
 — Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 E are nearing Naples. Mary 
 is with us. She came to 
 me willingly, and I was 
 much gratified to find her 
 heart still full of the love 
 she seems to bear for the little child. He sits 
 between us in his steamer chair, rolled up in 
 a warm rug, with the soft caressing breeze of 
 the Mediterranean fanning his brow. — Ah, 
 what a beautiful sunset ! 
 
 John is twelve years old now, and not so 
 large as the average boy of those years ; but 
 he is brave, and uses his crutches gracefully 
 
&0 a falling fetat 49 
 
 for a cripple. To-day he startled me by 
 saying — 
 
 " Eleanore, boys have mothers. Are you 
 mine ? " 
 
 "God gave us to one another, dear, be- 
 cause I was very selfish. And you were very 
 much alone in the world, and so was I, dear ; 
 for this we love each other dearly. John, 
 you have made me a far better woman than 
 I should ever have been without you." 
 
 " Ah," he simply said, and fell back in his 
 steamer chair, and allowed himself to be lulled 
 to sleep by the motion of the ship. And I 
 closed my eyes and thought and thought, and 
 when I opened them again old Vesuvius 
 could be seen plainly. Our voyage is soon 
 to end. Our next day will be upon foreign 
 shores, — the romantic shores of old Italy. 
 Fair country by the sea, we greet you ! 
 
IX. 
 
 4 Something the heart must have to cherish 
 Must love and joy and sound and learn, 
 Something with passion clasp or perish 
 
 And in itself to ashes burn. 
 So to this child my heart is clinging, 
 
 And its frank eyes, with look intense, 
 Me from a world of sin are bringing 
 Back to a world of innocence." 
 
 — Translated from the German. 
 
 OHN likes Naples. He ex- 
 presses a very great desire to 
 go soon to the Aquarium. 
 The fishes will interest him. 
 The street musicians are his 
 chief delight here, and he fancies that he would 
 like to learn to play the mandolin as the little 
 street gamins do. They came under our win- 
 dows last night, and he went to sleep and into 
 the alluring dreamland to the air of u Belle 
 Napoli" — "Sweet boy of Naples, fare thee 
 well," — and so must we, and then away to 
 some of your charming environs. 
 
&0 a falling &tat 5 1 
 
 Jt Amalfi. 
 Here we are, hundreds of feet above the 
 Gulf of Salerno, nicely tucked away in the 
 Capuchin Monastery. John enthuses over the 
 place, and Signor Vozzi, who is a delightful 
 old character, and the proprietor of this quaint 
 place, which calls itself a hotel, has taken a 
 fancy to the boy. Yesterday morning I went 
 out on the terrace in search of John. There 
 sat the old gentleman, and John beside him. 
 The entertaining Italian was telling John of 
 the monastery and the town just below the 
 hill. Then we all went into the chapel, and 
 there two old bagpipe players were sending up 
 their strains to the blessed Virgin. The air 
 of past ages one breathes here, and even in 
 the refectory an ever-present blessing seems 
 breathed out upon us all, as we sit at meat 
 and break bread. Silence, however, is rarely 
 observed, so how different are the meals of 
 to-day from those of the monks in years past. 
 
52 && a Jailing &tat 
 
 John, Mary, and I each have a cell in which 
 we sleep and are hushed to rest by the splash- 
 ing of the waves on the shore below. Signor 
 Vozzi and John are becoming inseparable, 
 and I fear it will be very hard to persuade the 
 boy that it is best to go on soon, and leave 
 this rambling old monastery by the Gulf of 
 Salerno. Last night we sat together and read 
 Longfellow's u Amalfi," which begins thus : 
 
 " Sweet the memory is to me 
 Of a land beyond the sea 
 Where the waves and mountains meet." 
 
 John loves the roses that grow on the ter- 
 race, and he is permitted, through the indul- 
 gence of Signor Vozzi, to make his own 
 selection. The cats and kittens, particular 
 pets of the Italians, are his as well, and he 
 goes about the court-yard and around the ter- 
 race with his eyes full of joy, the cats at his 
 heels, the roses in his blouse, and the words 
 upon his lips : " Eleanore, let us stay here 
 
&5 a Jfallmg &tat 53 
 
 always. " But John's cough seems to trouble 
 him so near the sea, so we must hurry inland, 
 though it pleases him to stay. 
 
 Our first mail from America has reached 
 us. Among the other letters is one from Dr. 
 Leech. He writes : 
 
 u If I may ever be of service to you or the 
 boy, cable * Come/ Why did you go so far 
 away ? I seem to be groping in the dark. 
 You forbid my hoping, — all is shadows. But 
 I pray that the most glorious sunlight may 
 ever play across the path of you and little 
 John. I still like to feel that between you 
 and me there is one thing, if never another, in 
 common — the love for the boy." 
 
 Sorrento, Italy, 
 Sorrento, with your dancers, you are charm- 
 ing. The peasants in their gayly colored cos- 
 tumes, in the " Tarrantella," are delightful. 
 We have but just come in from buying a cap 
 
54 &0 a falling &tat 
 
 for Alice Wade and an inlaid table for the 
 Doctor. This was John's thought for him, 
 and I am glad to have him think of the kind 
 friends who have been so devoted to him all 
 these years. 
 
 We had a delightful letter of introduction 
 to F. Marion Crawford, who lives not far 
 from here, on the road leading from Amalfi to 
 Sorrento. We sent the letter to him last 
 evening, and he sent a line of welcome to us 
 an hour or so later. So, early this morning, 
 after the shower had made this little world 
 fresh and beautiful, we made our way to the 
 home of this busy author. We were shown 
 into a very large room which had about it the 
 atmosphere of the man of letters, and was as 
 luxurious as it was different from the living- 
 room in the average house. His private apart- 
 ment where his books are " manufactured," 
 to quote his own words, is very enticing, and 
 
£0 a falling &tat 55 
 
 the entire atmosphere of the whole place, 
 both inside and out, is so restful, beautiful, 
 and ideal, in every respect, that we could see 
 how almost anyone could be inspired with 
 the desire, at least, to write, read, and live 
 here. 
 
 Mr. Crawford was most cordial, and showed 
 true American hospitality, though other coun- 
 tries claim him. One thing he said in re- 
 sponse to one of my inquiries as to the real 
 mental condition of Paul Patoff's mother 
 was — 
 
 " I Ve almost forgotten. Have n't read 
 that book in some time." 
 
 Naturally we were amused to find that the 
 creator of this strange psychological problem 
 of a woman hardly remembered what her 
 true condition had been according to his own 
 genius. John met the Crawford children and 
 thought them very amusing little folks. 
 
5° &0 a falling &tat 
 
 Rome, Italy. 
 
 Here we are, in Rome. John likes the 
 Piazza at the foot of the Spanish stairs best 
 of all the other squares in this ancient city, 
 so he tells me, for here the models in their 
 artistic rags flock about him and wish to have 
 their pictures taken, for we have a camera 
 with us. Most of his centimes go to them. 
 
 This afternoon we wandered into the little 
 church at the head of these same stairs, and 
 heard the nuns sing at Benediction. Their 
 " Ave Maria " suggested to John that they 
 might be angels, as they stood so high above 
 us behind the iron railing, all robed in white, 
 and sending their sweet soulful voices into 
 the church below. 
 
 The tremendous ruins John does n't care 
 for. They frighten him, he says, and it 
 wearies him sadly getting about on his 
 crutches. Tourists seem to show what they 
 
&& a iFalUng &tar si 
 
 feel, when he comes near, and their pity 
 seems to annoy him. He likes the sculp- 
 tures in the Vatican museum, but he says 
 that he fears to be near the chambers of His 
 Holiness the Pope. He thinks he may come 
 out some day and reprove him for not being 
 a little Catholic boy. Yesterday he bought 
 a very pretty rosary to take the village priest 
 on the island where we have spent so many 
 of our summers. We had it sent in and 
 blessed by His Holiness. It will add value 
 to it in the estimation of Father O'Dean. 
 
 Neither John, Mary, nor I slept well last 
 night. In the afternoon we went to see the 
 Church of the Capuchins, where the skeletons 
 of long since departed ecclesiastics are now 
 come to be mural decorations. The sight of 
 them left such a ghastly impression on our 
 minds that we agree we like Guido Reni's 
 painting of u Saint Michael and the Dragon," 
 
58 &* a falling &tat 
 
 which adorns the side wall of the church, 
 very much better than this vandal-like array 
 of bones. 
 
 The fountains John thinks very curious, 
 and the beautiful painting of the " Aurora " 
 which adorns the ceiling of the Respigliosi 
 Palace has captivated the fanciful mind of our 
 little lad. " It is all like a cloud picture, 
 Eleanore," he says. 
 
 We have made a visit to the Capitoline 
 Hill, and the statue of Marcus Aurelius I 
 admire very much. The jewel-bedecked 
 u Bombino," in the chapel near by, is one of 
 the shrines about which all devout believing 
 Catholics pay homage. Its healing powers 
 are world-renowned, and the journeys it has 
 made to many a sick-bed are told of with 
 pride and reverence by the priest who takes 
 you about the church which harbors this 
 sacred relic of the holy cross. We have en- 
 joyed our visit to the Museum and the city 
 
. SL0 a falling &tat 59 
 
 courts, the statues and the church, but I fear it 
 has been too fatigueing for John, and we 
 must not come again soon. He cannot be 
 unnecessarily wearied. 
 
 The Queen drives on the Pincion Hill 
 often. To-day we saw her as she rolled by 
 in state. Her graciousness is her particular 
 charm, and her beauty has for a long time 
 been the pride of all Italy. John enjoys 
 watching the schoolboys here in Rome. He 
 thinks he would enjoy being a student here 
 in the city of the ancients. How limited are 
 his pleasures because of his frail health. 
 Dear little fellow, how patient always! 
 
 Florence. 
 Florence, with your old towers and bridges, 
 your river and your streets, your forsaken pal- 
 aces and your museums and your beautiful sur- 
 rounding country, you are charming. There 
 is a fascination about you that is irresistible. 
 
60 SL0 a Jailing; &tat 
 
 Each day you show us some new delight. 
 Nurse wheels John about in his wheel chair 
 in the afternoons on the Lunqarno. He 
 comes home telling me of the soldiers and the 
 officers he sees on his promenade. 
 
 When we go down into the busier quarters 
 of the city he always wishes to be taken to the 
 Strozzi Palace to see the lanterns. He says 
 he had rather see things of this sort, though 
 he, with me, admires little " Saint John " in 
 the Ritti Palace, and he smiled wonderingly 
 and sweetly when I told him that he resembled 
 that ideal little face. 
 
 Nurse and I hardly see how Tito could 
 have drowned himself in the Arno, if it is 
 always as low as it is at present. 
 
 To-day we were at San Miniato. It is 
 beyond the city walls, beautifully located 
 above the valley of the Arno. A very mag- 
 nificent bronze cast of Michael Angelo's 
 u David " has been placed on the highest 
 
&* a JFailinff &tat 61 
 
 point, and we rested on the marble seats, get- 
 ting new strength and courage from the youth- 
 ful slayer of the Biblical giant. 
 
 To-morrow we are going to drive beyond 
 the walls in quite another direction. The 
 Monks of Chertosa have their picturesque 
 monastery out there, and we are going to pay 
 our adieus to these white-robed friars, and 
 bring some of their far-famed Chatrieux and 
 perfumes away with us. John wants to play 
 once more in the court-yard about the old 
 carven-stone well-curb before he says good- 
 bye to Firenze. Good-bye, dear lily city. 
 Sweet and peaceful has been our sojourn in 
 Frau Angelico's sainted city. And it seems it 
 must be good-bye to Italy as well, for John is 
 failing fast. Must I believe that he is slipping 
 away from me ? Is the precious flame of life 
 to be extinguished ere I can carry the dear 
 child back to our native shore ? Mary admits 
 to me that she is much alarmed over his con- 
 
62 a* a falling; &tar 
 
 dition. He clings to me, and there is a pathos 
 that I dare not realize means we are soon to 
 part. 
 
 He hums to himself one of my old harp 
 tunes, a Scotch air Tom loved so well and 
 that the little child has heard me play so often 
 at home. It makes me faint at heart to hear 
 him, but if it gives him pleasure I must, and 
 I will, allow the old association to bind, rather 
 than separate, Tom and little John. 
 
 Glorious Italy, thy blue sky has brightened 
 our days upon your historic soil. But our 
 ship sails from Genoa to-morrow, and soon 
 this fair land will be to us only an exquisite 
 memory. Addio ! Addio ! 
 
X. 
 
 " Why should we faint and fear to live alone, 
 Since all alone. Heaven has willed, we die ? 
 Nor even the tenderest heart and next our own 
 Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh." 
 
 -KebU. 
 
 E are on the sea. John 
 seems very feeble, but is 
 patient, and Nurse and I 
 never leave him. How 
 should I bear this — surely 
 my last sorrow, since I have no more to 
 lose — if it were not for the moral support 
 of faithful, peaceful-faced Nursy, whom John 
 and I have grown to love dearly since our 
 journey began. 
 
 We are almost at home, though John is 
 frail indeed, and I fear there will be little 
 strength remaining when the time to land 
 comes. He will be unable to use his crutches, 
 
64 &0 a failing &tar 
 
 we feel sure, by the time the ship drops 
 anchor in New York Harbor. 
 
 Ah, there is good Dr. Leech. He has 
 come to greet us upon our return. How 
 good it seems to see his strong, dignified face 
 when we all need comforting so much just 
 now. And how glad John seems to see his 
 old and faithful friend once more. But when 
 I look at Mary I can but assume an air of 
 joyfulness, too, for her face is covered with 
 blushes and pleasure, and I now guess for the 
 first time her secret, which she has guarded 
 so carefully from me all these years — she 
 loves Dr. Leech. 
 
XL 
 
 • The past is over and fled ; 
 
 Named new, we name it old. 
 
 Thereof some tale has been told ; 
 But no word comes from the dead, 
 
 Whether at all they be, 
 
 Or whether as bond or free, 
 
 Or whether they too were we, 
 Or by what spell they have sped. 
 
 1 Still we say as we go, 
 
 Strange to think by the way 
 Whatever there is to know 
 
 That shall we know one day." 
 
 — Dante Oabriel Rossetti. 
 
 OHN went to his heavenly 
 home in the spring. He lin- 
 gered only a few weeks after 
 we reached our native shore. 
 Each day his thoughtful 
 brown eyes seemed to grow the deeper, until 
 they resembled the heavenly depths them- 
 selves. 
 
 One day, late in the afternoon, just as the 
 sun was setting, he called me to him, and put- 
 
66 a* a jfalitniy &tat 
 
 ting his two wasted arms about my neck, 
 kissed me on the forehead, and said, oh, so 
 gently and softly : 
 
 " Eleanore, will you tell Captain that I 'm 
 ready now to sail away across the bay ? " 
 
 And then pointing to the two little crutches 
 that stood in the corner, his breath coming 
 quickly and with evident difficulty, — 
 
 " I think I hear the angels playing on many 
 harps, Eleanore, and there are, oh, so many 
 voices seeming to say s You will not need 
 your crutches here ' — so they are yours, 
 Eleanore. Good-bye." 
 
 And before I could believe my own eyes 
 he had relaxed his hold about my neck and 
 had fallen back upon his pillow, — and now 
 only the fragile wasted form lay before me to 
 remind me of the lily-white soul that had 
 soared above my grasp. 
 
 We have laid him in the old-time village 
 
2L0 a JFallinff fetat 67 
 
 churchyard here on the island, — a peaceful 
 spot. Here, in this quaint old village, he spent 
 his last beautiful days without a murmur, ever 
 patient to the end. The villagers asked for 
 the privilege of keeping the small lot and grave 
 green, and have planted flowers to the memory 
 of little John, for he is at rest. 
 
 Twelve years of beautiful companionship, 
 little John, — now you are with the others. 
 Tom knows you now, and so do the parents. 
 I am waiting, waiting. But patient I must 
 be, for the angel-child was patient always, 
 though he suffered much and constantly. 
 John's sweet, beautiful life reminds me of an 
 impressive sunset I once saw at sea. As the 
 great body seemed to sink, the gold of its fire 
 seemed to mellow into a faint wonderful 
 shade of the very palest yellow I have ever 
 seen, and the whole horizon was lit up by the 
 most delicate shades of blue, rose, and violet. 
 
68 a* a jFalltng &tat 
 
 This coloring was reflected on the very edges 
 of a few cumulus clouds, and even the 
 deeper depths of the heavens seemed colored 
 by the after-glow. It made the entire sea 
 world resemble an exquisite opal ; and such 
 a vivid picture remains with me that I shall 
 not soon forget this unusual display of nature's 
 jewels, — and thus the little life of my John, 
 my little dream-child, seems to me now. 
 Twelve years ! and yet it seems only a day, 
 and sometimes even shorter. But so full of 
 warmth and color, so full of gentleness and 
 forbearance, so aglow with a heavenly shad- 
 ing, a gem of an existence it will remain, as 
 that sunset is a veritable gem-picture on 
 Memory's wall. 
 
 Dr. Leech and Mary are married now, and 
 in a few days I am going to visit them. The 
 harp has been taken up to the hospital, and I 
 
ft* a Jailing &tat 
 
 6 9 
 
 have been persuaded to play for the children 
 every week. This I am going to do, for He 
 said " What thou doest unto the least of these 
 thou doest unto me." And until it comes 
 my turn to " sail across the bay," and I hear 
 Tom, my parents, and little John calling over 
 the ferry, " Come," I shall play on. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Of 
 
bOOU 
 
 3 V4 r/6-