Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1878-01-04
- JSS-STD f..


Gilbert Ainslie was n poor man: and he
had been poor man all the days of his life,
which were not few, for his thin hair was now
waxing gray. He had been born and bred on
the small moorand farm which he now occu-
pied and he hoped to die there, as his father
and grandfather had done before him, leaving
a family just above the more bitter wants of
this world. With his own hands he had
ploughed, sowed and reaped his often scanty
harvest, assisted, as they grew up by three
sons, who even in boyhood, We're happy to
work along with their father in the fields.
Out of doors or in, Gilbert Ainslie was never
idle. The spade, the shears, the plough-shaft,
the sickle, and the fail, all came readily to
hands that grasped them well and not a NOR
sci of food was eaten under his roof, or gar
ment wore there, that was not honestly,
verely, earned. Gilbert Ainshe was a slave,
but it was for them he loved with n sober and
deep affection. The thraldom under which
he lived God had imposed, and it only served
to give his character shade of silent gravity,
but not austere to make his smiles fewer,
but more heartfelt to calm his soul at grace
before and after meals; and to kindle it in
morning and evening prayer
There is no need to tell the character of the
wife of such man. Meek and thoughtful,
yet gladstone and gay withal, her heaven was
in her house; and her gentler and weaker
hands helped to bar the door against want
OF ten children that had been born to them,
they had parted with three and of the seven
that survived, two sons were farm servants in
the neighborhood, while three daughters and
two sons remained at home, growing, or
grown up, small, happy, hard-working
household.
Many cottages are there in Scotland like
Moss-side, and many such humble and virtu-
Gus cottagers rs were now beneath its roof of
straw. The eye of the passing traveller may
mark them, or mark them not, but they stand
peacefully in thousands all over the land and
most beautiful do they make it, through all
its wide valleys and narrow glens-its low
homes encrcled by the rocky walls of some
bonny burn-its green mounts elated with
their little crowning groves of plane trees
its yellow confelds, its bare pastoral hill
sides, and all its healthy moors, on whose
black bosom lie shining concealed glades of
excessive verdure, inhabited by flowers, and
visited only by the far-hying bees
In this cottage Gilbert's youngest child,
girl about nine years of age, had been lying
for a week in fever 1t was now Saturday
evening, the eve of the New Year, and the
ninth day of the disease. Was she to live or
die ? 1t seemed as if n very few hours were
between the innocent creature and heaven.
All the symptoms were those OF approaching
death. The parents knew well the change
llut comes over lue human luCt, MhtthSi ~
be in infancy, youth, or prime, just before
the departure of the spirit; and as they stood
together by Margaret's bed, it seemed to them
that the fatal shadow had fallen upon her fea-
lures The surgeon of the parish lived
some miles distant, but they expected him
now every moment and many wlstful look
was directed by fearful eyes along the moor.
The calm. noiseless spirit of life was in and
around the house, while death seemed dealing
with one who few days ago was like light
upon the floor and the sound of music, that
always breathed up when most wanted glad
and JOYOUS in common talk-sweet, silvery,
and mournful, when it joined in hymn and
psalm. One after another, they all continued
going up to the bedside, and then coming
away sobbing or silent, to see their merry lit
tie sister. who used to keep dancing all day
like butterfly in the meadow-held in sum-
mer. or like a butterfly with shut wings on a
flower, trifling for n while in the silence OF
her Joy, now tossing restlessly on her bed
and scarcely sensible TO the words of endear-
ment whispered around her, or the kisses dropt
with tears in spite of themselves, on her
burning forehead.
Utter poverty often kills the affections; but
deep. constant, and common feeling of this
worlds hardships, and an equal participation
in all those struggles by which they may be
softened. unite husband and wife, parents
| and children. Their souls are not moved by
fits and starts although, indeed, nature some
| times wrestles with necessity and there is a
wise moderation both in the JOY and the grief
of the intelligent poor, which keeps lasting
trouble away from their earthly lot and pre-
pares them unconsciously for heaven.
DO YOU think the child is dyingI" said
| Gilbert, with a calm voice, TO the surgeon,
| who. on his wearied horse, had Just arrived
| from another sick-bed over the snowy range
of hills, and had been looking steadfastly for
some minutes ON the little patient. The hui
name man knew the family well, in the midst
| of whom he was standing and replied,
| while there is life there is hope but my
pretty little Margaret is fear in the last ex-
tremity." There was no loud lamentation at
! these words-all had before known, but would
not confess il to themselves, what they were
now told-and though the certainty that was
in the words of the skilful man made their
| hearts beat for little with sicker throbbings,
made their pale faces paler and brought out
| from some eyes a greater gush of tears yet
| death had been before in this house, and IN
| this case he came, as he always does in awe,
| but not in terror. There We're wandering and
wavering and dreamy delirious phantasies in
| the brain of the innocent child but the few
words she indistinctly uttered were affecting,
not rending to the heart, for it was plain that
| she thOuBht heIseh heIulIB hel sheeP III 'iie
green silent pastures, and sitting wrapped in
her plaid upon the lawn and sunny side OF
| the Brk- -knowe. She was too much exhaust
ed-there was too little life-too little breath
| in her heart, to frame tune-but some OF
her words seemed to be from favorite old
songs; and at last her mother wept, and
| turned aside her face, when the child, whose
blue eyes were shut, and her lips almost still,
breathed out these lines of the beautiful twen-
| ty-third psalm
1.-THE Lords my Shepherd, III not want,
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; he leadeth me
he auttfa a. kKHat hV