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The University Courier.
of "Little Paul." But he was remembered by hearts that would ever ache for him.
I went back to my fire without the water, and sat down on the soft green of the prairie, and reflected. I could picture to myself the poor child, as he lay in the arms of his loving mother, and the shaky wagon going slowly ahead over the prairie. The hot little face is buried in the breast of the anxious woman, and her toil-worn hand is lightly laid on his fevered brow. Mile after mile they go on, watching for some sign of relaxing of the fever, and for some place to stop until the sickness is better, for they all hope that he will get well, although the face of the mother shows that she fears the worst.
The sun is sinking behind a long rift of clouds in the west, and casting its bright rays over the whole heavens. The light feathery clouds, which are scattered over the sky, are tinged with delicate shades of pink, blue, and colors no one can name. A soft southern breeze bears the fragrance of many flowers to these weary peolpe, as they unharness the poor horses, and turn them out to feed. It sways the flowers of the prairie as they close their light petals for the nights sleep, to awaken fresh and sweet in the morning. There is the gentian, the spring-beauty and the anemone. A wild passion flower is closing its fancy blossoms with the same stillness, the same seeming intelligence, with which the wild creatures of God's creation always go to their nightly rest.
The sun goes down, down, until only a mere reflection of his face can be seen in the sky,a still promise of his coming on the morrow to recall all life into activity.
The prairie dog has gone to his rest, the gopher is sleeping the sleep of the innocent; but there is no rest nor sleep for the tired, weary ones who have just come to this haven of rest, made by the Creator's own hand. They have spread the dirty mattress on the ground and laid the sick boy on it. The flickering fire casts a doubtful light on the pale faces of the child and his watchers, for no one can sleep now.
There lies the old bed; around it are the
anxious faces of the father and the brothers and sisters. Very little is said; but now and then the little tot by the side of his mother asks in a childish voice what is the matter; but becomes frightened at the sound of his voice, and stops his question before it is finished, clinging closer than ever to his mother's dress.
The father's rough hand lies on the fevered brow of his boy, and the mother holds the trembling hand of her baby. Bye and bye the child seems better. He turns his soft eyes to his mother, and clasps her hand closer to him. An unnatural light comes to his face, and he raises up, only to fall back in his mother's arms. He opens his eyes again, and looks so far away, far beyond the circle of watchers, into the unknown land, where we never see with earthly eyes. Happiness beams from his countenance. The brilliant light of a divine spirit brightens his wan face. He falls back with a smile on his lips, and his last breath is carried by the balmy southern breezes up to the Maker.
At last the morning dawns. The first promise of the day comes into the east. Then the fleecy clouds reflect the soft light, and slowly the morning comes; and the bereaved family is still clustered round the couch where their boy has died.
The mother wraps the slender form in her old shawl, crosses the hands on the breast, and tenderly kisses the cold forehead. The father goes to the oak tree, and digs the narrow grave under its spreading limbs; and the family gathers round as they place their boy in the rough box made of the side-boards of the wagon. They place a bunch of the sweet wild flowers, still moist with dew, in the slender hand, and slowly lower the precious treasure to its last resting place.
The grasses and flowers are growing over that grave now, a token of the purity of the one whom they cover. The head board is still there with its "Little Paul," a remembrance of love and sorrow and hope for the future, such as no marble monument could ever have been.
Would that we could all have such a head stone at our graves. Would that we were all worthy of it.