Shenandoah herald. [volume] (Woodstock, Va.) 1865-1974, 1880-11-17

is good boy, after all, il he does some
times do wrong. He is tender-hearted |
aflectlonate boy. He always vas
And therewithal the water stood in
the eyes Of that forgiving mother, even |
as it stood in the eyes OF Mercy, in the
house of the Interpreter. as recorded by |
Bunyan.
After tea tho evening paper was
taken up; but there was no news and
nothing of interest for that father in the
Journal of that evening. He sat for
some time in an evidently painful
reveric, and then rose and repaired to
his bed chamber. AS he passed the
bedroom where his little boy slept, he
thought he would look in upon him be-
fore re firing 10 rest. He crept 10 his
low cot and bent over him. A big tear
had stolen down the boys cheek and
rested upon it, but he was sleeping
calmly and sweetly. The father deeply
regretted his harshness as be gazed up
on his son, but he felt also the sense
Of duty yet in the night talking the
matter over with the lads mother, be
resolved and promised, instead OF punish
ing. as he bad threatened, to make
amends to the boys aggrleved spirit in
the morning for the manner IN which he
had repellcd all explanation Of his
ofense.
'But that morning never came to the
poor child IN health. lie awoke the
next morning with a raging fever on
his brain, and wild with delirium. In
for:y-eight hours he was in bis shroud.
He knew neither his father nor bis
NJ other, when they were first called TO
his bedside, nor at any moment after
ward. Waiting, watching for one token
of recognition, hour after hour, in
speechlcss agony, did that unhappy
father bend over the couch Of his dying
son. Once, indeed, he thought he saw
a smile of recognition light up his dying
eve, aud be leaned eagerly forward, for
he would have given worlds to have
whispered one kind word in his ear and
have been answered but that CLEAN OF
apparent intelligence passed quickly
away. and was succeeded by the cold,
unmeaning glare and the wild tossing
Of the fevered limbs, which lasted until
death came to his relief.
Two days afterward tie undertaken
came with he little coflin. and his son,
playmate Of the deceased boy, bringing
the low stools on which it was to stand
in the entry-hall
4 was with Henry SAID the lad
when he got into the water. We were
playing down at the Long Wharf,
Henry and Frank Mumford and |: and
the tide was out very low. and there
was beam run or. from the wharf,
and Charles got out on it to get a fish
line and hook that hung oyer where the
water was deep, and the first thing we
saw he had slipped off and was strug-
Cling in the water ! Henry threw of
his cap and jgmped clear from the
warf into the water aud after a great
deal of hard work. got Charles out
aud they waded up through the mud to
where the wharf was not so wet and
slippery, and then l helped them to
climb up the side. Charles told Henry
not to say anything about it. for if he
did his father would meyer let him go
near the water again. Henry was
very sorry, and all the way going home
he kept saying:
What will father say when he secs
me tonight? l wish We Lad not gone
to the hart!
Dear, brave boy!' exclaimed the
bereavcd father; and this was the ex
PLANTATION which so cruelty refused to
hear! And hot and butter tears rolled
down bis cheeks.
Yes, that stern father nov learned,
and for the first time, that What he had
treated with unwonted severity as a
fault, was but the impulse of generous
nature. which, lorgeilul Of self, had
hazardad life for another. II was but
the quick prompting OF that manly
spirit which lie himself had always ell
deavored to graft upon his susceptible
mind. and which, young az he was, had
already manifested itself On more than
one occasion.
Let me close this story IN the very
words of that father, and let the lesson
sink deep into the heart Of every parent
who shall peruae this sketch
Every thing that l now see that ever
belonged TO him reminds me of my lost
! boy. Yesterday 1 found some rude
pencil-sketches, which 1t was his delight
to make for the amusement Of his
younger brother. To day, in rummag-
ing an old closet, l came across his
boots, still covered with dock-mud, as
when he last wore them. (You may
think it strange, but that which Is
usually so unsigbtly an object is now
most precious to me- And every
morning and evening l pass the place
where my son's voice rang the merrest
among his playmates.
All these things speak TO me viv-
idly of his active life, but can not
r 49, oc.,,, tr;,I-I ooo ~