The Pulaski citizen. [volume] (Pulaski, Tenn.) 1866-current, 1874-12-17


my room, because it is too big, and
it stands Just outside in the hall.
The boys come along and kick 1t, and
say, that's bully chest of yOurs-holds
deal of plumber, don't it ? I say old
fellow, how'll you swap But l shan't
swap, for I've seen every trunk in our
hall, and like mine best. But guess
I won't bring it home for the short va
cations, they Jam things so on the cars.
So you may send up my valise before
the term closes. That viii be in ten
weeks and three days" And so Ned's
valise piled back and forth between
home and school, like a brisk little
tug tending a man-of-war, and levia-
than's stately bulk was moved only at
the long vacations.
But, alas, one sad Christmas Eve, the
trunk came home with its sick master,
to return no more. The next morning
he stopped feebly before his old com
rade, and with weak, pale hands undid
the fastenings, and took out some OF
his especial treasures then said, Set
it by till I feel better, and then III
unpack the rest" But the next day he
was worse-and the next. So we made
him a pleasant couch in the sunny par
Tor, and pushed the great trunk into the
hall. There it stayed many weeks, and
we forgot its existence, while we sum-
moned doctors, and mixed medicines,
and gave ourselves to nursing the pre-
cious boy back TO health.
But the pale face grew paler, and the
beautiful eyes larger and more lus-
trous. The hands that had been 50
alert with bat and ball grew white and
thin, and one morning he said, with
sad surprise, 81 cannot open my pen
knife" A few weeks longer and tender
arms lifted him from side to side; and
so, inch by inch, life retreated and
death came to the front. We all knew,
though we could not say it for tears,
| that our Ned was soon going on a
/ Journey where they take neither purse
/ nor scrip, nor cumber themselves with
earthly gear. Oh, how it comforted us
| to know that while length of days was
set before him, he had committed him
self to One mighty to save-to feel as
sUred that while we, with tenderest min
istries, could go with him only to the
rivers brink, yet not alone, no unat-
| tended should be his
-"disembarking on that awful strand"
| Leviathan now stands in the chamber
| of the desolate parents. It IS no longer
/ a trunk for gross and common uses, nor
/ is it in danger from :" iourneyings oft.
| It is an Ark of Memorials witns IS be-
tween the living and the dead. Nobody
| has turned tire key in its rustiDg wards
| since it fell from the sick boys hands.
| Whenever we find a scrap of paper on
which the dear hand has traced itself,
in however trivial fashion, we lay it softly
away in some of the boxes or drawers.
His letters are there-bright, joyous,
full of the frolic and eageness of the
life that now is-there are the compost
4 tiOns, showing indeed, the "'prentice
hand" of the youth, untitled, as yet, by
lore and observation but thoughtful,
earnest, reaching out in their dim ques-
tiOnings toward the Immortal sea.
Here is the little purse, lean and worn
poor little purse which was always
emptying itself, always filing with
school bills, society bills, class bills,
sent carefully home for papa to audit,
with the playful injunction, 80 Let these
bills, o pater. be to thee for a care.
Would we could audit such accounts
again
In this little box is tuft of siIken
chestnut hair, shOrn from the beautiful
dog-Ned's playmate and bedfellow-
who went into the great Bayond-a sad
forerunner-many years ago. How well
we remember the tear-stained face of
the child, as he came in from the small
mound under the apple-tree, and asked
us to write to Tennyson about his dog,
"because," said he I've had been read
In In Memoriam lately), "perheps he
would write about Don"
Our dear boys Bible is not among
these tender treasures for, with dying
breath, he gave it to his cousin, adding
in a whisper, "Perhaps you won't think
that much of a spresent /; but I think a
g1ea5 deal of that Bible"
We are growing less sordid and
worldly now for who shall come after
us to cherish the things our hands have
handled ? We shall be able to console
ourselves if thieves carry off the family
plate, for who, q generation hence, will
muse fondly over the old fashioned
relics They may take down the pic
lures from the walls, for nobody, by
and by, will look up to the fading can
vas and say, with flial pride, That,
sir, was my father"
But they will not want this old bat
tered trunk. They will not care to rife
1t of its dingy books and yellow papers.
When the ache and emptiness of be-
reavement press too severely upon us
we go TO it softly, and take out one by
one the well-worn volumes-for he was
a scholarly lad, and his books were com
, rades-and put our fingers on the pages
his dear hands have pressed so often.
! and unfold the packages of happy let.
ters, and take up the various relics, each
T written all over with some pleasant his.
, tory, till, for q few moments, we lose
ourselves in the illusion that the sainted
/ child leans to us from the skies.