The Columbia herald. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 1850-1873, 1873-01-03

somebody blesses you for the guiding
ray, and, above all, that you are praying
for me.
The long voyage was almost ended,
but another voyage Was to efid. Before
that, The widow Locke was taken i'll
Yet, with unfailing regularity, with
feeble step and tremulous hand, night
1y the dear woman trimmed the little
lamp and placed it in the window:
Still, when the blended form could no
longer totter about the cottage, when
she lay helpless upon her bed, and the
neighbors came to care for her. she
would say, "Put the little lamp in the
window: my Henry will be thinking of
| it,
Night after night, and even until her
| eyes grew dim, she would watch the
| radiance of the hickering light, only
saying sometimes, "Shall live to hear
his footsteps? Will that feeble fame
still burn when my life's light has gone
out?"
Pray with me, +" she muttered, GO that
l may see him before 1 die. Oh for
this most precious boom"
In vain all prayer. Slowly, more
slowly, the wheels went round, and the
pulses, like ebbing drops, fell fainter
and fewer, until, one calm night in
summer, the waters were scarcely
stirred.
She lay quietly, smile upon her
lips, her eyes closed, her hands folded.
81 have longed to see him." she said:
81 have prayed earnestly; but I have
given it all up now. I shall not meet
him in this world
"Have you put the light in the win
dow?" she asked, suddenly, earnestly, a
few moments after. cit is growing
dark"
Her hands grew cold. Over her
countenance came that mysterious
shadow that falls but once on any NOR
tai face
"Oh, my boy! my boyr' she whisper
ed; tell him''-they bent lower to
catch the failing words" tell him I
will put a light in the window of
heaven to guide his footsteps there"
The thrilling sentence was hardly
spoken, when the shadow dropped from
the suffering face, and it smiled in the
calm majesty of death.
A funeral followed; humble hearts
| attended the body of one who was
|
through the hamlet; and on the hill
side, in a little graveyard, she was
buried.
Not many days after great ship
came into the port of q. busy city
Among all those who stepped from her
decks none were more hopeful, more
joyous, than young Henry Locke. He
hol tha Of
sea life, so far, unscathed. No blight
of immortality had fallen upon him. He
had kept himself as spotless as if at
every nightfall his feet had been turned
towards the door of his mothers cot
tage. How his heart bounded as he
thought of her. Strangely enough, he
never dreamed she might be dead. It
did not occur to him that perhaps her
silver locks we're lying under the lid of
the coffin. Oh, no! he only thought of
the pleasant light in the window that
her hands had trimmed for him.
Beautiful and bland was the day on
which he travelled again the long -accus-
toned road. How pleasant now to go
home with sufficient to provide for the
comfort of that dear mother. She
would never want again. He would
take her to a better home, and give her
the luxuries he had once longed to see
in her possession. That old armchair
she should have a new one, easy in
motion, elegant in material The faded
shawl, that he had seen folded and re-
folded year after year; the old-fashioned
bonnet, with its one band of Grape;
these, yes, everything, should be re-
placed with newer and better. The
flowers on the road all smiled as he
looked toward them; the very kline
seemed to him turning their meek eyes
at the sound of strange footsteps, to
know that his heart was glad with
love and anticipation. Hope on, dream
er! Yonder comes one who trudges on
laggingly-a farmer in heavy boots and
frock, his whip i'll his hand He cheers
the lazy oxen, but suddenly stops,
amazed.
''I see you know me-, said the young
sailor, smiling "Well, farmer Brown,
how is"
"Know We! why, how tall ye are!
So''-his eye drops, his mouth trembles
&c so ye've got home"
eyes, and glad enough to get back
again-how's my mother?'' !
YOur-mother"- says it in that |
slow, hesitating way that telegraphs i'll |
tidings before that are told in words
Yes-is she well? is she expecting |
me? OF course she is; we're late by |
month"
"Your mother, Henry, well-the old |
lady" He plays with his whip, or,
rather, strikes it hard on the dusty |
road. How can he crush that happy |
heart!
"There, you need not speak!'' cried |
the young man in a voice Of sudden |
anguish, and he recoiled, almost stag |
gering, from the farmers side, and |
buried his face in his hands.
Henry, my poor lad, your mother
"Dont! don't!" cried the other,
showing now a face from which all color
had fed. "Oh, my mother! my mother!
she is gone, gone-and 1 coming
home so happyp'
For some moments he sobbed as in |
agony. How dreary the world had
grown The flowers had lost fragrance,
the sun warmth; his heart seemed dead.
Henry, she left message for you"
said the old farmer, wiping his eyes
with the sleeve of his frock.
ga message for me?" it seemed as if |
the white lips could hardly speak.
Yes; says she-so my dame told me,
and so the minister said Tell Henry
will put light in the window of |
heaven to guide his footsteps there. :"
''Did she, oh, did she say that? God
bless you for telling mel All the
long voyage have thought of the light
in her little window. I have seemed to
see it streaming along, along down to
the foot of the hill, till it grew brighter
and brighter as / drew nearer. 4 light
in the window of heaven. Yes, mother,
will think still you are waiting for
me. l could not see you in these long
years; but 1 kney the light was burn
ing. can not see you now, but I
knew the light is burning. will come,
mother"
Slowly and reverently he went to the
hillside graveyard, and there he knelt
and wept upon her 1owly grave. But
not there he thought her. A sweet
vision was vouchsafed him. All robed
in heavenly garments he saw the beau
tifuI soul he had called mother, and
from the brightness of her
glorious home a slender beam seemed