The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1885-05-14

In the moody and gloomy world
there ID one little spot on earth that Is
mine. 1t is not large enough for .
garden, nor Is it large enough for any
thing else except grave. A stone
post is set at either corner, and the
grass grows green and luxuriant in
summer, and in winter clings to the
earth half dead. That little spot Is the
own flesh and blood. A willow stands
by the side of q small mound. of earth,
beneath which molders flesh as bean
tiful as flesh ever was. and when its
foliage is on, droops sadly above my
baby's tomb and weeps heavens own
dew upon the grave of my darling boy.
We laid him there in winter. The
snow was lying deep upon the earth,
and the shrill blasts from the north
were blowing fiercely when the frozen
clods, mingled with the snow, fell
heavily upon the coffin of our babe
He was our highest hope, and as the
hollow sound of the earth falling upon
his narrow shelter beat upon our ears,
they seemed nuggets of lead falling
from some great height to crush our
poor, broken hearts.
Spring came, and we planted our
little plat with flowers and evergreens,
and sodded the earth heaped above our
baby's bosom. The dews and rain of
heaven fell and nourished the emblems
of our never-dying love, and now, when
the sun shines brightly, there is no
fairer spot on all the grateful earth.
Years have come and gone since we lost
our boy, but our love still lives, and
once each year we visit the little grave
and weep with the willow upon its sods.
No spot was ever dearer to man than
that small plat of ground is to me.
There the heartaches of life are melted
into tears; there the toll and worry of
business cannot come, nor can any
grief overshadow that which sweetens
the few moments / devote to happy
memories of my dead, and mellow
thoughts of what might have been. 1t
is a shrine where 1 leave and receive
the consolation that comes from an
abiding faith that only the body, the
beautiful tenement SO loved, is dead
that the life and soul that so bound me
to their frail home are as enduring as
time.
Let the world go on with its mad race
for honor and gold; let men applaud
and women praise and children revere,
and let all the hosts that follow pomp
and power bow to their poor idols of
clay; when 1 stand by my baby's grave
my ears are closed to all the strife and
contention for place and position-my
eyes are blind to all the scenes of rev.
elry and insignia of rank that so daz-
zle the world. All the confusion of
eternal exertion is nothing to me then.
When / am there, there is but one
face / ever saw that claims my vision
sweet baby face-the face of one of
whom the world scarcely knew and for
whom it never cared; its eyes are the
windows of the temple of innocence; its
curly silken locks are the threads of
which the very mantle of purity is
woven. / see the beauties of that one
life and forget the hypocrisy and deceit
about me. L hear the silver voice of
my child prattling of loveAfull of en-
dearing words and noble little thoughts,
and all the wordy strife and argument
of the wiser world pales into insignifi-
canoe and loses all its force. There, at
my baby's grave. is relief from all my
woes but one, and that is so gentle in
its influence that it becames almost the
the pain of pleasure. Avaunt, all evil
thoughts and purposes for am stand
ing at the grave of my dead in peace.
+. +. Htiddle, in Through Mail.