Читать книгу Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland - Abigail Stanley Hanna - Страница 13

But while we yet linger on this sacred spot, will enter into the school house where our young footsteps first attempted to climb the hill of Science. The outward appearance is the same. A pretty one story and a half building, painted yellow with white trimmings, and a chocolate colored door, which is reached by two stone steps.

You are then admitted into a large hall, accommodated with shelves for the convenience of the scholars, and as we pass through this and enter the school-room, we feel almost a child again. But we see at a glance that our dear old teacher does not occupy the desk, and it is a stranger's voice that strikes upon the ear. As we glance at the well-filled seats, we readily perceive there is not one of all the group, no, not one, that occupied those seats when we were scholars there. But we will sit calmly down upon the teacher's desk and recall the dim shadowy forms of the past, the by-gone past. The breeze that passes through the open window and fans the brow, might be mistaken for the same playful zephyr that sported with our own silken locks in childhood, as we stood before this same open window. The monotonous hum of the school-room seems the same and the drowsy buzz of the summer fly as it floats on azure wings brings to the ear a well remembered sound, and we press our hand tightly upon our eyes and try to think we are living over again years that are passed. It will not do, there is a change--we must acknowledge that change. The teacher who so long presided in this place, was a stern man, of commanding figure, with a high, broad forehead and piercing black eyes, coal black hair and beard, with rather a handsome countenance, although nothing could ever provoke a smile upon it in school hours, and he governed his pupils more by fear than love. But the lesson must be perfectly committed and correctly recited, or the offending culprit must fall under his severe displeasure, and this was a situation that few in the school were willing to be placed in. I have heard of this man's death, but in what manner or where I know not; but many are the lessons I have heard fall from his lips which still live in my heart--have had their impress upon the life, and will continue to exist through the boundless ages of eternity. And now that the thoughtlessness of youth has passed away, here, upon this spot, would I offer a grateful tribute to his memory. Many others, too, occupied this place, of whose destiny I am entirely ignorant, but yet remember them with much affection.

One female teacher in particular, under whose instruction I sat six summers in succession. Then she was young and healthful, and happy in the bosom of her family; but now all have passed away save this one surviving branch. She alone remains of her family, in feeble health, and with that depression of spirits incident upon her situation.

On the low seat next to the desk, used to sit rather a fragile child, with bright red hair and deep blue eyes that had a depth of meaning in their earnest gaze. Her seat was vacant, and we heard, that Elizabeth Ann was sick with typhus fever. We visited her in her chamber. She lay tossing from side to side, upon her bed, even gnawing her fingers for very pain. I gazed upon her with pity, and they told me she must die. I had seen the aged pass away, but never the young. And musing long and sadly upon this event, I sought my home, and spent a restless night, repeating often the childish hymn, commencing,

"I in the burying place may see

Graves shorter there than I."

But the long night passed away with its sad presages, and the rising sun peeped between the thick clustering leaves and flowers of the morning glories that shaded the window, and diffused light and radiance upon the joyous landscape. The birds awoke to new melody, and in the gladness that surrounded me I almost forgot the impressions of the previous evening. I arose, though slightly refreshed, repeating as I did so,

"So like the sun may I fulfil

The duties of the day."

Almost the first intelligence that greeted my ear was the death of Elizabeth Ann Prince. While the shadows of that night still lingered, her pure spirit had passed away, and for the first time I realized more fully than I had ever done before, that youth is no protection from death. I saw her in her small coffin, and felt the marble coldness of her pale brow, and as I saw the coffin descend into the narrow grave, I turned sadly away with a grief-stricken, and perchance a better heart. But for many months I could tell the exact number of nights she had lain buried in the silent grave.

The next morning as I took my seat with a favorite companion, in the one behind that formerly occupied by her, I almost started as I fancied that her face was upturned to mine, and those blue orbs rested upon me.

The dear friend that sat with me, has too, passed away, "and the places that knew her once upon earth, now know her no more forever." Rosa was an orphan, having lost both parents; she was the youngest of four sisters, had an amiable disposition, and was an affectionate friend. She was married to a wealthy man, and became the mother of several children; but the destroyer came and bore her from her dear family to the silent church-yard, and placed her beneath a grassy mound beside her father and her mother. Sweet is thy memory, friend of my early days, and very pleasant were the hours we spent together: but they have passed away with the things that were, and like the rose leaves that falling fill the air with their perfume, so the fragrance of those hours still lives.

Next to Rosa Whittier sat Julia Balcolm, with saddened expression of countenance and large deep blue eyes that gazed upon you with a deeper expression of melancholly in their glances than is usual to the merry age of childhood, and elicited your sympathy ere you knew her history. Julia was a cripple. She was drawn to school by an older sister with rosy cheeks, bright flashing black eyes, and a sprightly animated countenance, and carried into the school-room in the arms of her teacher, or some of the older scholars. And so she came, year after year, mingling with the merry group. But where is she now? yon little mound of heaped up earth covers her remains, and a narrow marble slab tells the place of her repose, and we can but hope she who was denied the privilege of walking on earth may now soar on angel's wings.

As we contemplate the deprivations of one situated as she was, we can but realize the blessing of having "the common use of our own limbs." This dear child was obliged to crawl from place to place after her more favored companions, dragging her useless perished limbs behind her. But he who careth for us knew what was best for her, and we cannot doubt his infinite wisdom.

It were vain to endeavor to trace the destinies of all who used to sit with us, in this favorite, place. Many have gone down to death--many still live on the same premises where they first inhaled the breath of life, and some have gone forth into the world to fulfil a darker destiny on the broad ocean of human life, that is ever tossing its tumultuous waves before the tempestuous winds of fortune, and have been ship-wrecked upon the quick-sands of vice and dissipation. The shady side of the picture has been presented; but those were bright and joyous days, and our school-yard resounded with the merry laugh and frolicsome mirth of childhood; yet they leave not that abiding impression upon the mind that characterizes incidents of a more sombre hue. But we will leave the dear old school house with all its treasured memories that link it with the past, and pursue our way in some other direction. It is hard to stop where so many images crowd upon the mind, and come stealing upon us in the shape of old familiar friends with whom we have walked side by side, day after day; but dear familiar scenes, adieu.