CHAPTER I.
VISIT TO THE GRAVEYARD.
DID you ever go into a graveyard, and walk around among the graves? Did you ever measure whether any of the little mounds were shorter than you?
I am going to tell you a true story about a grave I once saw. It was on a lovely June day, that, in company with some friends, I took the cars to visit a large cemetery in the State of New York. As we were all strangers, we paid a man, whom we found near the gate, to show us the way through the winding paths, to the handsomest parts of the place. As we walked along, on every side of us were splendid monuments marking the spot where some dear father or mother or child had been buried.
Presently I heard the voices of children, and then a sweet, musical laugh. I hurried on to the edge of a lovely lake, and there saw a dear little girl throwing crumbs from her basket to some beautiful white swans that were springing from the water to catch them. Her brother, a year or two older than she, was standing by her side, looking pleased to see her so happy.
“What is your name, little girl?” I asked.
She gave me a quick glance from under her long lashes, and then softly answered, “Lily.”
I smiled as I took her hand in mine; and then her brother said, “Her name is Lily Oliver. We come here almost every day to feed the swans, and bring flowers for mother’s grave.”
He glanced toward a handsome monument, close by, and Lily explained, “Mamma’s in there. She’s waiting for Berty and me, ‘cause we’re going up to God with her.”
“She told us she’d wait,” urged the boy, fixing his earnest eyes on mine. “Every night we pray to God to let us go quick, because we want to see her so.”
There was a quiver in his voice, which brought tears to my eyes. For a moment I could not speak, my heart ached so much for these dear little ones whose mother was in heaven.
I held a hand of each as I said, “I’m sure if you are good children, and try to please the Saviour, that he will send his angels to watch over you, and at last take you, with your mother, to the happy world where he lives.”
Lily smiled and nodded her head as I walked away; and presently I heard her sweet voice laughing merrily as the pretty birds sprang up to catch a crumb from her hand.
We passed one small yard almost hidden among the trees, where by the side of a low, green mound, was a flat piece of white marble, with a dog carved on the top of it.
This, our guide told us, was where a little boy was buried who had been drowned. The dog was carved like one who had tried to save his young master’s life. He held the clothes of the drowning boy in his teeth, until help came, but they were so exhausted that they both died.
Then we came to a short grave, only as long as your baby brother. There was a piece of wood at the head of it, and painted on it were the simple words, “OUR JAMIE.”
Lying on the grass which grew over it, was a tiny red shoe—the toe all sucked just as little babies love to suck their shoes; and tied to the end of the string were four large buttons. I wanted to stop there, and think about the dear babe who had so early been called to its home in the skies; but a young woman came up, and snatching the little shoe began to kiss it and weep over it.
“That is the mother,” said our guide; and so we turned away that we might not intrude on her grief.
We walked slowly on, for our hearts ached for the weeping mother, and presently the guide led us up quite a steep path, to a family tomb built in the side of the hill. The door leading down the steps was in front; but it did not look at all like a place for the dead. It looked far more like a child’s play-house. There were posts at the four corners of the yard, and an iron chain running from one to another. Opposite the door to the tomb was a gate from which a walk led into the yard. It was not covered with gravel like the others, but with little round pebbles from the seashore, mingled with sparkling shells. On one side was a large rocking-horse, which had been out so long in the rain and storm, that the saddle was damp with mildew, and the paint was quite washed off the rockers.
On the other side of the walk was a small wheelbarrow, half full of little pebbles.
“Do you know who is buried here?” I asked the guide.
“We must walk along,” he said hurriedly, without answering my question. “There’s a funeral coming up this path.”
I was sorry to go away, for I wanted to hear about the little boy or girl who had been called away from its toys. I wanted to ask whether the child had loved God, and had gone to live with the Saviour; but there was no time, now. We turned off into a side path, and then after the procession of mourners had passed on, we followed to an open grave where a child was to be buried.
We all stood back while the men lowered the small coffin into the ground, and then I ventured near and looked down the narrow vault. I thought of the time when my little babe was buried from my sight, and the tears flowed down my cheeks.
“Did you ever lose a child?” sobbed a woman near me, catching hold of my arm.
“Yes,” I said; “it was my first, and then, my only one.”
“Did it die suddenly?”
I bowed my head.
“Then you can pity me. Yesterday, my darling Amy was as well as ever. Her father brought in some cherries, and she begged for some. I gave her three. Oh, how she jumped and screamed with joy!”
Hero the poor mother began to cry and sob so violently that she could not speak. A young woman near tried to soothe her, and presently said, turning to me, “Poor little Amy got a cherry-stone down her windpipe, and it killed her.”
“Oh, dear!” sobbed the weeping mother. “Only yesterday she was alive, and so happy; I can’t go home without her! Oh, what shall I do?”
“Can’t you trust her with her Savior?” I asked. “You know how he loved little children. It was very hard for me, at first; but now it comforts me to think that my baby boy is happy in heaven. He wears—”
“’A crown upon his forehead
A harp within his hand.’”
“He is clothed with spotless robes and with the choir of infant worshippers is singing praise to the Lamb forever. Doesn’t it comfort you to think of Amy there?”
She wiped away her tears and said, softly, “I should love to think of her in heaven; but, oh, I shall be dreadfully lonesome without her.”
I put out my hand and she shook it as if she could not bear to part. When we were almost out of sight, I looked back, and she was weeping bitterly, while the sexton began to throw the earth upon the coffin.
CHAPTER II.
WILLIE’S HAPPY DEATH.
As we passed the yard where we had seen the rocking-horse, we found two ladies standing near the gate. Presently one of them took a key from her pocket, unlocked it and went in; and then a gentleman of our party recognized in her an old friend.
“This is where our dear Willie is buried,” said the lady. “His mother made me promise to come very often to visit the place.”
“The last time I saw him, he was riding on his rocking-horse,” replied the gentleman, gazing round him with new interest.
“Do you remember how he loved to sing?”
“Yes, ah, yes! but, his songs are ended, now.”
“No, indeed!” exclaimed the lady, earnestly; “they are but just begun; I often think how he used to walk with me hour after hour on the beach, humming to himself his favorite hymn,—
“’I have a Father in the promised land,
I have a Father in the promised land.
My Father calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.’”
“How little his mother or any of us realized that his Father was calling him.”
“Dear child!” I exclaimed, trying to keep back my tears. “And was he willing to go at last?”
“He was almost impatient to be gone. One day his mother sat bathing his hot head, and she said, ‘Willie, are you going to leave mother all alone? I thought you loved your sea-side home,—that you liked to hear the waves roar and dash up against the rocks; I didn’t think you would be so glad to leave us all.’”
“He looked sadly in her face for a minute, drew her hand to his mouth and kissed it, and then smiles lighted up his pale face as he began to sing,—
“’I have a Saviour in the promised land,
I have a Saviour in the promised land.
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.’”
“’Don’t cry so, mother,’ he said, as he felt her tears drop on his hand; ‘do let me sing the rest.’ And then in a voice almost of rapture he went on,—”
“’I’ll away, I’ll away to the promised land,
I’ll away, I’ll away to the promised land.
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.’”
“Not an hour before he died, and after he seemed to have lost consciousness, we heard a low, murmuring sound, and on listening intently he was once more repeating these words. I love to come here,” added the lady, looking with moistened eyes at the playthings which had belonged to her beloved nephew, “but I love still better to think of him as he is now—a bright angel before the throne of God, tuning his harp to the praises of God forever and forever.”
Dear little boy or girl who may road this story of Willie’s grave, will you not try to live so that when your heavenly Father calls, you will gladly obey the summons to heaven? This lovely child was surrounded by everything to make life pleasant. He lived by the sea, where he could see the ships ride by in all their grandeur. He could wander along the smooth beach and pick up glistening shells and stones. His parents had money, and were ready to grant every desire of his heart; and yet he was willing to leave all, and lay his body to rest in the ground. Why could he do this? It was because he had a Friend—a Father—a Saviour in heaven, whom he loved better than the rolling ocean, his pleasant home, or even than his earthly parents.
For more than two years Willie had tried to please this heavenly Friend, by keeping his commandments, by honoring his father and mother, being kind to his brother, correcting the faults in his temper, and doing good to those about him.
This was the reason why Willie could answer so cheerfully when God called him home,—
“’I’ll away, I’ll away to the promised land,
My Saviour calls me, I must go
To meet him in the promised land.’”
