Muscatine journal. [volume] (Bloomington, Iowa) 1849-185?, 1853-06-24
broken leg confined you to that little
chamber four long long weeks. You think
you have reason to remember the grove of

broken leg confined you to that little
chamber four long long weeks. You think
you have reason to remember the grove Of
oaks.
You next visit the school. house. II has
been painted since you were there, and
green blinds have been aided. Happy ur-
chins are enjoying their merry sports on
the grassy play ground in front. You pass
them by; a tear trickles down your cheek;
you enter the room where you have receiv-
ed the education of your boyhood; there
have been no changes there the same knife
cut benches, and ink-stained tables; the
same paintings, dusty as ever, are hung
where they wont to be; you behold them al
and turn away with deep drawn sigh. All,
if there is anything in art that will bring
viyidly to mind the scenes of choohildd, it
is the school-houss in which your youth was
educated. There, too, stands the village
church, and you hasten thither, for near by
is the little graveyard, and you have heard
sad news since you returned. Every thing
that here meets your gaze is plain, simple
and unadorned. Those fair white marble
stones are not marred BY the sculptors
skillful art, but there they stand emblemat-
ical Of the purity and innocence that lie
beneath.
Up there in secluded corner is new
made grave; the first green grass now COW
ers the sleeping dead; you hasten towards it
and read the painted inscription. Why
that emotion? Why those tears? All,
again you are carried back to early childhood
to the happiest days of your life. You re-
member wGen the being that now lies deep
buried in the ground was your young and
sprightly schoolnate. She lived only across
the way; and watching at the window, she
would always be ready to accomp any you
to school, and hand in hand in childish glee
you would trudge along, knowing nought
but pleasure and happiness. You remem-
ber as she grew older you would invite her
to walk with you, and at the May parties
she was always your little queen. You
have..not forgot that when all the rest were
singing and playing, you took her little
hands in yours and wandered o'er the green
fields, and piucked the pretty May flowers
how you carried her over the brooks, and
always took down the fence that she might
tho more easily pass; how you talked to
her aqout what you would do when you
were man; that you would build little
cottage, and you remember that she, in
childish innocence, exclaimed, "And I'll
come and be your little housekeeper :" you,
too, have not forgot when you were sick,
lying on your couch and burning up with
fever, she came and asked your mother to
let her battle your forehead, and there fol
whole days she would do naught but obey
your many calls; you remember, when you
was able to go out, her father harnessed tht
easy buggy and bid you get in, and then ou
comes bounding and skipping along
tho little nurse, who, seating herself BY
your side, manages the gentle steed, anG
keeps you in glee by her childish prattle--
You never will forget the time when you
left your home, that she was the last to bic
you adieu and tho last to give you the part
ing kiss how when you was going over tht
Lil you looked behind to see tho village ant
the loved home that you would sec no NOR,
for years, you beheld your little driver q
the window waving her handkerchief t.
you--you wept.
! .'Oh, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young hear. lone and deSolats
! In the vide world, without that enly tic
For which il loved 70 live or feared TO die"
And now while you stand beside tha
hallowed and consecrated ground oil these
childhood "reminiscences fill your soul t.
over6owing, and you give ventto your feel
ings in food of tears. You have Learned
that she died afew short weeks ago. an,
the last words she ever uttered on earth
were the l:spng of your name, and tina
hose words mounted the esame gentl breeze
that waited her pure spirit to realms o
bliss. You begin to feel, for the first time
that you loved her-that she was dearer t,
you than all earth, and again you weep
You bring little weeping willow and plan
it o'er her grave, and water its dry roo.
with tears; you bedeck the green sods Will
flowers that she loved; you look toward
the heavens and sigh. O., tits heavenly
grief-angels demand none hclier. Yo,
feel her spiri. around you. !. lights W
tho world. You now remember it was he,
spirit that hovsred around you in your ia,
distant honey dry up your tears for sht
is still with you.
IT'S beautiful belief
That ever round our head
Are hovering in breathlese silence
Spirits OF the dead.n
You leave that silent churoh-yard wi.
ser and better man. You make your sis.
ter promise to watch and take good care OF
the weeping willow and have it grow until
it shades the whole grave. Time hurries
on in its ceaseless course, and you prepare
to return to your new home, perhaps in the
far distant west. The final adieus are Civ.
en-. You bid your friends long fare3 ell;
you take Q last look Of tie willow and are
gone.
Fer the Journal
Sermon No. v.
- tbs FAST age, young men are cd
Ir virtue, wisdom, and in truth;
They never think what they are told
conceit is, sure, the pride Of youth.