The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1886-02-20
Remembrances.
Written for the Democratic Advocate.

In turning over some papers in an old
writing desk the other evening, came upon
time-worn envelope, almost yellow with
age. Blowing the dust off, took out its
contents and found written in neat hand;
"Written on my 18th birthday" and un-
derneath in the well-remembered charac-
ters: "Keep this" But the words
and the name-after the flight of years
are not for these Remembrances.
Do those who "are waiting and watching
for u" every come back again because
just now as 1 laid down my pen, some one
put thin white hand upon my shoulder,
and it came creeping along, till the brown
ringlets touched my cheek. Then, the
vision-forgettingits mission-started back.
l tried to say the little word, when
1 thought it floated away, saying, 'sBy-
and-by;" though this may have only been
the noise made by the rustling of its wings.
The. snow is falling house is all
quiet and still 1 am alone in my reverie.
She is under the snow; and I, writing these
Remembrances. Reader, did you ever con-
template the nothingness of life? Our
loved ones float away so quietly over the
dark river, that you and l, standing on this
side, know nothing of the passing. Re-
member, in crossing that river, sunlight
never plays with the drippings of the oar
blades" 1t is black and dark and deep;
the oars are never muffied, you can hear
every stroke humping against the thole-
pins. The writer is no physician, but often
while the ferryman was waiting, he has
heard that wishing, longing cry come up
through the last agonies: "Give me air;
open the window" this in the midst
of winter
Do those who have gone before know
how the living grieve for them? Do they
hover around and about us, seeing, unseen2
Just now as great sob welled up in my
throat | fancied l heard tender voice say:
"a little longer, o loyal heart.
Back upon my soul come trooping the
old memories, that have so long slumbered
in its unconsumed depths, as fresh as if it
were but yesterday we roamed the wales
together, or met within the time-worn walls
of the old church that still stands ga little
way back from the village street" But
she has foated away, like the echo of "a
song whose sweetness is done Methinks
the sunset clouds will sail sadly past that
grave on the southern side of gentle rise
that overlooks the vale, where it catches
the first smile of day as he rises from the
horizon; and the last rays of the sun rest
on it, while the twilight fingers there when
darkness has hidden all below, The marks
where the little redbreasts have hoped
across it are plainly visible; the wind sings
dirge; the snow presses downily, and al
night the moonlight sweeps over it and sill
vers it with glory,
If any one would realize how thin is the
veil that separates us from "the valley of
the shadow" let him Commune with his
own spirit and be still" The voice will
tell him.
Under the snow! To couple her name
the memory of her virtues, with the tomb
is to rob the latter of all its shadowiness and
dread. Gone out-forever? No, no
The light has not gone out. 1t is shining
beyond the stars, where there is no night
and no darkness, forever, and forever.
Inside the folds of the paper l find
What? Alas =
"How full thou art of memories, seyeFd tress,"
FEB. 1856. FAIRY GLEN, MD.