News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1882-11-16

his voice could SCARCELY be heard at tn,
grave; and never did I hear the funera
service, tnat sublime and touching cere
mony, turned into such frigid murmul
of words.
L approached the grave. The cofir
was placed on the ground. On it were
inscribed the name and age of the de
ceased: "George Somers, aged q
years" The poor mother had been as
sisted to kneel down at the head of it.
Her withered hands were clasped as il
In prayer; but I could perceive by g
feeble rocking of the body, and a con.
Vulslve motion of the lips, that she was
gazing on the last relics of her son with
the warnings of mothers heart.
The service being ended, preparations
were made to deposit the coffin in the
earth. There was that bustling stir
which breaks SO harshly on the feelings
OF grief and affection; directions given
in the cold tone of business the strik-
ing of spades into sand and gravel,
which. at the grave of those we love, is
OF all sounds the most whitening. The
hustle around seemed to awake the
mother from wretched reverie. She
raised her glazed eyes, and looked about
with faint wildness. As the men ap-
preached with cords to lower the coffin
into the grave, she wrung her hands and
broke into an agony of grief. The poor
woman who attended her took her by
the arm, endeavoring to raise her from
the earth, and to whisper something
like consolation =" "Nay, now nay,
now-don't take it SO sorely to heart. I"
She could only shake her head and
wiring her hands, as one not to be COM
| forted.
As they lowered the body into the
earth, the cracking of the cords seemed
to agonlze her; but when, on some ac-
cidental obstruction, there was jost-
ling of the coffin. all the tenderness of
the mother broke forth-as if any
harm could come to him who was far
beyond the reach of worldly suffering.
could see no more; my heart
! swelled into my throat-my eyes filed
with tears-I felt as if / were acting a
barbarous part in standing by and gaz-
ing idly ON this scene of material an
guish, wandered to another part of
the churchyard, where [ remained un-
til the funeral train had dispersed.
When l saw the mother slowly and
painfully quitting the grave, leaving
behind her all that was dear to her on
earth, and returning to silence and
destitution, my heart aehed for her.
What, thought I, are the distresses of
the rich? They have friends to soothe,
pleasures to beguile, a world to divert
and dissipate their griefs. What are
the sorrows of the young ?-their grow
ing minds soon close above the wound,
their elastic spirits soon rise beneath
the pressure, their green and ductiIe
affections soon twine around new OBJ
jects. But the SORROWS of the poor,
who have no outward appliances to
soothe-the SORROWS of the aged, with
whom life at best is but wintry day,
aud who can look for no aftergrowth or
joy-the sorro ws of widow, aged, soil
tary, destitute, mourning over an only
son, the last soIace of her years-these
are indeed sorrows which make us fee
the impotency of consolation.
It was some time before left the
churchyard. On my way homeward 1
met the woman who had acted as COM
forter she was returning from accom-
panying the mother to her lonely habi-
tation, and 1 drew from her some par
ticulars connected with the affecting
scene had witnessed.
The parents of the deceased had re-
sided in the village from childhood.
They had inhabited one of the neatest
cottages and, by various rural occupa-
tions and the assistance of small gar
den, had supported themselves credit
ably and comfortably, and led happy
and blameless life. They had one son,
who had grown up to be the staff and
pride of their age.
"Oh, sir p said the good woman,
"he was such q likely lad-so sweetly
tempered, so kind to every one around
him, so dutiful to his parents 1t did
ones heart good to see him of a Sunday,
dressed out in his best, so tall, so
straight, so CHEEKY, supporting his old
mother to church for she was always
fonder of leaning on Georges arm than
hn,- % ha
might well be proud of him, for o finer
lad there was not in the country round.
Unfortunately, the son was tempted,
during a season of scarcity and agricul-
of one of the small craft that piled on
neighboring river. He had not been
long in this employ when he was en-
trapped by press-gang and carried off
to sea. His parents received tidings of
his seizure, but beyond that they could
learn nothing. It was the loss of their
main prop. The father, who was already
infrm, grew heartless and melancholy,
and sank into his grave. The widow,
left lonely in her age and feebleness,
could no longer support herself, and
came upon the parish. Still there was
a kind feeling toward her throughout
the village, and certain respect, as
being one of the Oldest inhabitants. As
no one applied for the cottage in which
she had passed so many happy days,
she was permitted to remain in it. where
she lived solitary and almost helpless.
The few wants of nature were chiefly
supplied from the scanty productions of
her little garden, which the neiehbors
would now and then Cultivate for her.
1t was but few days before the time
at which these circumstances we're told
me, that she was gathering some vege-
tables for her repast, when she heard
tine cottage door, which faced the gar
den, suddenly opened. A stranger
came out, and seemed to be looking
eagerly and wildly around. He was
dressed in seamen's clothes, was
emaciated and CHASTITY pale, and bore
the air of one broken by sickness and
hardshlps. He saw her and hastened
toward her, but his steps were faint
and falterIng he sank on his knees be-
fore her and sobbed like child. The
poor woman gazed upon him with
vacant and wandering eye. "Oh, my
dear, dear mother, don't you know your
son-your poor boy GeorgeP" It was