University of Virginia Library

THE LOST CHILDREN.

Miss H. F. Gould.

There was sickness in the dwelling of the emigrant.
Stretched upon his humble bed, he depended
on that nursing care which a wife, scarcely less enfeebled
than himself, was able to bestow. A child,
in its third summer, had been recently laid to its last
rest beneath a turf mound under their window. Its
image was in the heart of the mother, as she tenderly
ministered to her husband.

“Wife, I am afraid I think too much about poor
little Thomas. He was so well and rosy when we
left our old home scarcely a year since. Sometimes
I feel, if we had but continued there, our darling
would not have died.”

The tear which had long trembled, and been repressed
by the varieties of conjugal solicitude, burst
forth at these words. It freely overflowed the brimming
eyes, and relieved the suffocating emotions
which had striven for the mastery.

“Do not reproach yourself, dear husband. His
time had come. He is happier there than here.
Let us be thankful for those that are spared.”

“It seems to me that the little girls are growing
pale. I am afraid you confine them too closely to
this narrow house, and to the sight of sickness. The

weather is growing settled. You had better send
them out to change the air, and run about at their
will. Mary, lay the baby on the bed by me, and ask
mother to let little sister and you go out for a ramble.”

The mother assented, and the children, who were
four and six years old, departed full of delight. A
clearing had been made in front of their habitation,
and, by ascending a knoll in its vicinity, another
dwelling might be seen, environed with the dark
spruce and hemlock. In the rear of these houses
was a wide expanse of ground, interspersed with
thickets, rocky acclivities, and patches of forest trees,
while far away one or two lakelets peered up, with
their blue eyes deeply fringed. The spirits of the
children, as they entered this uninclosed region, were
like those of the birds that surrounded them. They
playfully pursued each other with merry laughter,
and such a joyous sense of liberty as makes the blood
course lightsomely through the veins.

“Little Jane, let us go farther than ever we have
before. We will see what lies beyond those high
hills, for it is but just past noon, and we can get back
long before supper-time.”

“Oh! yes, let us follow that bright bluebird, and
see what he is flying after. But don't go in among
those briers that tear the clothes so, for mother has
no time to mend them.”

“Sister, sweet sister, here are some snow-drops in
this green hollow, exactly like those in my old, dear

garden so far away. How pure they are, and cool,
just like the baby's face, when the wind blows on it!
Father and mother will like us to bring them some.”

Filling their little aprons with the spoil, and still
searching for something new or beautiful, they prolonged
their ramble, unconscious of the flight of time,
or the extent of space they were traversing. At
length, admonished by the chilliness, which often
marks the declining hours of the early days of
Spring, they turned their course homeward. But
the returning clew was lost, and they walked rapidly,
only to plunge more inextricably in the mazes of the
wilderness.

“Sister Mary, are these pretty snow-drops good to
eat? I am so hungry, and my feet ache, and will
not go.”

“Let me lift you over this brook, little Jane, and
hold tighter by my hand, and walk as brave as you
can, that we may get home, and help mother set the
table.”

“We won't go so far the next time, will we?
What is the reason that I can not see any better?”

“Is not that the roof of our house, dear Jane, and
the thin smoke curling up among the trees? Many
times before have I thought so, and found it only a
rock or a mist.”

As evening drew its veil, the hapless wanderers,
bewildered, hurried to and fro, calling for their parents,
or shouting for help, until their strength was
exhausted. Torn by brambles, and their poor feet

bleeding from the rocks which strewed their path,
then sunk down, moaning bitterly. The fears that
overpower the heart of a timid child who for the
first time finds night approaching, without shelter or
protection, wrought on the youngest to insupportable
anguish. The elder, filled with the sacred warmth
of sisterly affection, after the first paroxysms of grief,
seemed to forget herself, and sitting upon the damp
ground, and folding the little one in her arms, rocked
her with a gentle movement, soothing and hushing
her like a nursling.

“Don't cry! oh! don't cry so, dearest; say your
prayers, and fear will fly away.”

“How can I kneel down here in the dark woods,
or say my prayers, when mother is not by to hear
me? I think I see a large wolf, with sharp ears, and
a mouth wide open, and hear noises as of many fierce
lions growling.”

“Dear little Jane, do say, `Our Father, who art
in heaven.' Be a good girl, and, when we have
rested here a while, perhaps He may be pleased to
send some one to find us, and to fetch us home.”

Harrowing was the anxiety in the lowly hut of the
emigrant when day drew toward its close, and the
children came not. A boy, their sole assistant in the
toils of agriculture, at his return from labor, was sent
in search of them, but in vain. As evening drew on,
the inmates of the neighboring house, and those of
a small hamlet at considerable distance, were alarmed,
and associated in the pursuit. The agony of the

invalid parents through that night was uncontrollable;
starting at every footstep, shaping out of every
breeze the accents of the lost ones returning, or their
cries of misery. While the morning was yet gray,
the father, no longer to be restrained, and armed
with supernatural strength, went forth, amid the ravings
of his fever, to take part in the pursuit. With
fiery cheeks, his throbbing head bound with a handkerchief,
he was seen in the most dangerous and inaccessible
spots—caverns—ravines—beetling cliffs—
leading the way to every point of peril, in the phrensy
of grief and disease.

The second night drew on, with one of those sudden
storms of sleet and snow, which sometimes chill
the hopes of the young Spring. Then was a sadder
sight—a woman with attenuated form, flying she
knew not whither, and continually exclaiming, “My
children! my children!” It was fearful to see a
creature so deadly pale, with the darkness of midnight
about her. She heeded no advice to take care
of herself, nor persuasion to return to her home.

“They call me! Let me go! I will lay them in
their bed myself. How cold their feet are! What!
is Jane singing her nightly hymn without me? No!
no! She cries! Some evil serpent has stung her;”
and, shrieking wildly, the poor mother disappeared,
like a hunted deer, in the depths of the forest.

Oh! might she but have wrapped them in her arms,
as they shivered in their dismal recess, under the
roots of a tree uptorn by some wintery tempest! Yet

how could she imagine the spot where they lay, or
believe that those little wearied limbs had borne
them, through bog and bramble, more than six miles
from the parental door? In the niche which we
have mentioned, a faint moaning sound might still
be heard.

“Sister, do not tell me that we shall never see the
baby any more. I see it now, and Thomas too!
dear Thomas! Why do they say he died and was
buried? He is close by me, just above my head.
There are many more babies with him—a host.
They glide by me as if they had wings. They look
warm and happy. I should be glad to be with them,
and join their beautiful plays. But O, how cold I
am! Cover me close, Mary. Take my head into
your bosom.”

“Pray do not go to sleep quite yet, dear Jane. I
want to hear your voice, and talk with you. It is so
very sad to be waking here alone. If I could but
see your face when you are asleep, it would be a
comfort. But it is so dark, so dark!”

Rousing herself with difficulty, she unties her
apron, and spreads it over the head of the child, to
protect it from the driving snow; she pillows the
cold cheek on her breast, and grasps more firmly
the benumbed hand by which she had so faithfully
led her, through all their terrible pilgrimage. There
they are! One moves not. The other keeps vigil,
feebly giving utterance, at intervals, to a low, suffocating
spasm from a throat dried with hunger.

Once more she leans upon her elbow, to look on the
face of the little one, for whom as a mother she has
cared. With love strong as death, she comforts herself
that her sister slumbers calmly, because the
stroke of the destroyer has silenced her sobbings.

Ah! why came ye not hither, torches that gleam
through the wilderness, and men who shout to each
other? why came ye not this way? See! they plunge
into morasses, they cut their path through tangled
thickets, they ford waters, they ascend mountains,
they explore forests—but the lost are not found!

The third and fourth nights come and depart.
Still the woods are filled with eager searchers. Sympathy
has gathered them from remote settlements.
Every log-cabin sends forth what it can spare for this
work of pity and of sorrow. They cross each other's
track. Incessantly they interrogate and reply, but
in vain. The lost are not found!

In her mournful dwelling, the mother sat motionless.
Her infant was upon her lap. The strong duty
to succor its helplessness, grappled with the might of
grief and prevailed. Her eyes were riveted upon
its brow. No sound passed her white lips. Pitying
women, from distant habitations, gathered around
and wept for her. They even essayed some words
of consolation. But she answered nothing. She
looked not toward them. She had no ear for human
voices. In her soul was the perpetual cry of the lost.
Nothing overpowered it, but the wail of her living
babe. She ministered to its necessities, and that

Heaven-inspired impulse saved her. She had no longer
any hope for those who had wandered away.
Horrid images were in her fancy—the ravening beast
—black pits of stagnant water—birds of fierce beak—
venomous, coiling snakes. She bowed herself down
to them, and travailed as in the birth-hour, fearfully
and in silence. But the helpless babe on her bosom
touched an electric chord, and saved her from despair.
Maternal love, with its pillar of cloud and of
flame, guided her through the desert, that she perished
not.

Sunday came, and the search was unabated. It
seemed only marked by a deeper tinge of melancholy.
The most serious felt it fitting to go forth at
that sacred season to seek the lost, though not, like
their Master, girded with the power to save. Parents
remembered that it might have been their own
little ones who had thus strayed from the fold, and
with their gratitude took a portion of the mourner's
spirit into their hearts. Even the sad hope of gathering
the dead for the sepulchre, the sole hope that
now sustained their toil, began to fade into doubt.
As they climbed over huge trees, which the winds of
winter had prostrated, or forced their way among
rending brambles, sharp rocks, and close-woven
branches, they marveled how such fragile forms could
have endured hardships by which the vigor of manhood
was impeded and perplexed.

The echo of a gun rang suddenly through the forest.
It was repeated. Hill to hill bore the thrilling

message. It was the concerted signal that their anxieties
were ended. The hurrying seekers followed
its sound. From a commanding cliff a white flag
was seen to float. It was the herald that the lost
were found.

There they were—near the base of a wooded hilloc,
half cradled among the roots of an uptorn chestnut.
There they lay, cheek to cheek, hand clasped
in hand. The blasts had mingled in one mesh their
disheveled locks, for they had left home with their
poor heads uncovered. The youngest had passed
away in sleep. There was no contortion on her
brow, though her features were sunk and sharpened
by famine.

The elder had borne a deeper and longer anguish.
Her eyes were open, as though she had watched till
death came; watched over that little one, for whom,
through those days and nights of terror, she had cared
and sorrowed like a mother. Strong and rugged men
shed tears when they saw she had wrapped her in
her own scanty apron, and striven with her embracing
arms to preserve the warmth of vitality, even
after the cherished spirit had fled away. The glazed
eyeballs were strained, as if, to the last, they had
been gazing for her father's roof, or the wreath of
smoke that should guide her there.

Sweet sisterly love! so patient in all adversity, so
faithful unto the end, found it not a Father's house,
where it might enter with the little one, and be sundered
no more? Found it not a fold whence no lamb

can wander and be lost? a mansion where there is
no death, neither sorrow nor crying? Forgot it not
all its sufferings for joy at that dear Redeemer's welcome,
which, in its cradle, it had been taught to lisp
—“Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid
them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.”