Sunbury American. [volume] (Sunbury, Pa.) 1848-1879, 1850-05-18
4 Select Tnle.
HISTORY OF HOUSEHOLD.
By d. NJ. MULOCH


NV fathers house was indeed home,
quiet, well regulated home, where the
several gradations Of parents, children and
servants were properly distinguished and
yet the line of difference was not SO harshly
drawn as to give pain to any one. AS well
might the human frame exist without a
head, as a family without a ruler. My !
father was in truth the supreme guide and
sole arbiter of his own household. He |
was gentle, but he could be firm at times
and if now and then his will was little |
arbitrary, it was better than no authority at
all. My mother was the sunshine of our
little garden of love though not gifted
with commanding talents, or with energy
TO enable her to steer through life alone,
yet, united to a man like my father, she
was all that is loveable in the character Of
woman as wife and mother. Without him
as her guide and support, she might have
been nothing; with him, she was every
thing.
look back with my minds eye on that
dear old place, where I grew from infancy
to boyhood and from boyhood to youth
1t was large, old rambling house, on the
slope of hill not bleak, picturesque
mountain, but a green unduIation, high
enough to overlook several miles of our
level country, and smooth enough, with
its soft grassy carpet, to tempt many gay
troop Of children to roll down from the
summit to the foot Of the bank. At the
back of our house rose this hill; in the
Spring-time it was studded with lazy, hap
py-looking cows, and all Summer long 1t
was vocal with the melodies OF birds that
built their nests in safety among the tall
trees of tiny grove halfway up the ac-
clivity. Then, too, we had the music of a
pebbly stream, that ran through our orchard,
and the distant and not unpleasant hum of
my fathers cotton mill, which brought us
in our daily bread, and within whose mys-
terious and dangerous precincts our anxious
mother ne'er allowed us to venture alone.
There was something awful and strange in
that old mill, with its ever dinning sound
and its ever moving wheels, like living
creatures; near whose devouring jaws we
never dared approach. My father, as he
walked amongst his machinery, seemed
like some superior being, whom these fear
ful creatures were forced to obey.
l was the eldest child-for a few year:
. the only one. II is long effort of memory
to look back sixty years, but will strive tc
do so. In early infancy, our life seems {
kind of sleep, in which appear few viviC
points, like portions Of dream. 1t i
strange that my first recollection of exist
ence, at least the existence of thought, il
+ one of death. l remember playing ont
v sunny morning in the garden, when, peer
Il ing into rose-bushes higher than myself,
found robin, lying stiff and cold. ! won
dered much the beautiful bird did not fly
away, as had watched others do, but la,
still in my hand. l brought it to my mo
ther.
"Why does not pretty robin move? !
he asleep"
"My little Bernard" said my mother
''he will not move again; he is dead W
must bury him."
"What is that, mother! what is bein
"a dead And what will you do to the littl
H. bird! Do make him Ay!'
- My mother took my hand in silence, an
led me to a flower bed, where | stood b
her side and watched her bury the poo
bird. When the last bright feather disaI
peared under the brown soil | began
weep.
"You will hurt the robin, mamma, b
ds putting it under the cold ground
10 ale does not feel it, Bernard" she al
swered, she is as if he were asleep, oal
that he will not wake again"
ho iae "Not awake again, nor sing, nor fly!
ire ire that being dead?"
ell "Yes, my darling" said my mother, sa
his ly. "He will never feel tired or hung
i've again, or cold as in that bitter frost not loI
/. ago. So do not weep for the robin, BE
" nard, and some day will tell you more
asked many questions, but my moth
did not answer them; she judged rig
. that it is vain, almost wrong to let yo
children hear of death. Their minds c.
.L) only comprehend its fearfulness, not
calm, and hope, and holiness. Therefor
it was long after that day when learn
,n1 what death really was; but still / could I
lIy, forget the poor bird and came day af
ant day to the flower bed, vainly expecting
see il lift up the brown mouldan fly awi
and thinking how it must feel to lie Il
esi- with the flowers growing above it.
me- Except thisone memory, my early chi
era era hood is a blank, until one day they told
We l was going to have sister, and my bo
heart danced with inv nj the thouuht