Weekly hawk-eye and telegraph. [volume] (Burlington, Iowa) 1855-1857, 1855-11-07

n HsegsA Sssry 1ssk.
sShs was dsAd, shs wa4 barred; friends, hns-
Saad, fssh<s and Dother had followed stc
ypssg vile - her nnsisnely grAse--and she
sebAnd had xept fsass Of an.aish IN she
saiitasy chamhsr, 1,lsd With none bat Eapps,
lcyiug memories. But svme weeks bave pas
sd, md the husband albeit with her measo-
y n his hear, has gone back TO tha bu.y
word, AMI HE worldly asocatiom--he has
changed his room. The hau-e has been
thrown op a. renovated, puriGr..,, from IN.
traces Of liner. and griu death. The ser-
yaHts 70 good, kind mistress, sre ia moarn-
ing, and often rehearss her virtues as they
parsue their daily tasks. And all goes on o
II used to do, sasc that, perhaps the house
10 more silent, and has cold look, ttat the
parlor is seldom entered, and that there is
one room in which none ever come, and by
which ID servants steal in groups, lowering
their voices and silencing their footsteps as
they pass, tina, IS all. The sweet tender
vile, friend, daughter, mistress, is but .
tender memory TO all, no longer 40 element
in the life Of any-li.e is again full OF life
and hope without her. To ALTO all but
one, her child, her little toddling child, with
her own b'ne eyes, and her own long cius-
tefing, waving hair. Since she is gone, those
blue eyes arc even more like hers, like hers
as they gased with the last look upon the
dear onss who shut out even Heaven from
her view; they have lost their joyous, care
lets, wondering look; the h ur, too; hangs in
heavy masses, and seems less BRIGHT; the boy
is paier, too; but that might be the black
frock which contrasts so with hisfairy skin.
His little patsering step resounds no longer
through the house, now above, now below,
then with merry laugh in the very rom
where you are. lie, too, has taught bis tiny
steps to move slowly and silently, and his
long dark eyeiashes (his fathers shading his
mothers eyes) hide his soft blue orbs. lie
does not pass the still cold room where his
mother died; tits there alone he goes. lie
sees her there, be hears her voice; each morn
ing when he wakes, he opens tho door with
little, fumblrng hand; he goes to the bed
where she used to be, on tip. toe, and with q
beating heart he raises himself to see if she
is there; but no head rests on the pillow
where so often he has nestled in her bosom
and slept in her arms, then with sigh, say
ing, in his lisping voice, Tomorrow he be-
gins his little pilgrimage; he lays his little
head down on the pillow of the sofa, and he
thinks Of her and Heaven, and angels, for
they tell him she is in Heaven and an angel
now -and he touches every familiar object,
and at every one he murmur's smnmmy,' in
the beseeching, tender tone to wiring your
heart more than the strong mans overwhelm-
ing grief. And, then, st the last be sits himself
down, the poor, sads boy, on low stool by
the chair close to her work table, where she
used to sit, and opening little soiled and
ragged book, with but four or FIVE leaves.
and it's hideous and distorted pictures, but
it is treasure to him, for it was her last
gift, aad she taught him to read it, and since
she had gone away to Heaven, the poor. soil
ed, tattered book had never left him; Sleep
ing or waking, his little hand had c,asped it
tightly. And now in his still, cold room
which speaks of death and sorrow to all, but
which to him is full of hope; he sits him
down and on his knee he smooths the crum-
Piled pages, and with his little fingers point
ing to the words, in his lisping tone aloud be
reads, as though she listened ms she used
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
Aud hushed me in her arms to rest?
My Motier
Aud he is quiet, and good, and gentle. says
his nurse, who loves him, and who took him
from his birth, except when he sleeps, and
then he dreams, and starts, and cries, and
sobs 20, that it is hard to CONT ort him. And
his father loves him, and brings him toys,
and kisses him, and strokes his fair hair; and
signs; but he never speaks of his mother to
him, for he could not bear it, and it is better
the boy should forget. And aunts anunoles,
and Tia mothers mother love hun, and ca
ress him, and he is a happy child. Yes he
likes them all, and smiles at the pretty toys
and returns the caress; but he loves his tat
tered book best of all, and his place in the
still, cold room better than all.
And he grew thinner, and aler, every
day, and the blue eyes got larger, and the
little hand was hot and feveiish, and more
wild and troubled were his dreamy slumbers.
His m other had asked God for him. said an
old German woman, recalling touching
legend If the Rhine, as she gazed on the ia
ding boy.
And now he grew worse, his breath came
short, his body burned with fever-his
thoughts wardered but still the tiny hand
clasped to the family futtering heart the
poor trrn book, and in his fever he would
talk of Heaven and the angels. And so one
night as the young father in deep anguish,
and the weeping nurse watched BY his little
crib, he suddenly started from his pillow,
gszed around, and smiled sweetly; sad, sad
smile at his nurse, then turning towards his
father, he fixed his deep blue eyes on his, and
gazed a-d gazed till the strong man was aw-
ed by their solemn look and could scare bear
their deep, searching glance. And then the
thin hot hands clutcbed at the bad clothes,
and the ragged story book falls from their
Embossed Clasp; but quickly, with almost a
shrek of agony, the boy clutches it again,
then with smile, sob, sigh, the boy sinks
on his soft down pillow, which his mother
with ner own hands made, and bending down
to catch his very breath, the watchers hear
the voice murmer in its childish lisping
tones
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
Aud hushed me in her arms to res
My Mother. T.
And so he went to God; for, plying the
dark and dreary years before the half-o rpan-
ed boy, His mother in Heaven had asked God