 | This, that and the other |  |
“I CANNOT MAKE HIM DEAD.”
Hush! tread very lightly! The long shadows stretch
across the floor, the canary is silent in the window, the air
seems heavy with the perfume of the violets you hold in your
hand.
There he lies, — your little Charlie! Yes, yours, for Charlie's
mother has gone to sleep. They put her down in the cold, dark
earth, in the gray of a winter's morning; daisies grow over her
grave now, and wild birds, southern birds, with gay, brilliant
wings, sing over her. Charley is yours.
Watch him as he sleeps. The eye is like yours when it
opens, but the blue-veined lid that closes over it is his mother's.
Those lips are hers! Do you remember how they trembled
when you first told her your love, and how in long years they
only parted to breathe for you words of gentle kindness? Sometimes
you were impatient, petulant. O, how you repented
it when it was too late! But nothing had power to dim the
love-light in those clear blue eyes — nothing! not even death
itself, for her last words were a blessing, when she died, and —
gave you Charlie. O, how you have loved that boy! You
have watched the breath of heaven, lest it fall too roughly on his
cheek. You have buttoned your coat around you, as you
“Yes, he shall be rich, my Charlie.”
But there came days when there was no little foot to meet
you on the stair, no childish voice to whisper welcome.
The room, your room and Charlie's, was hushed and still;
the nurse stepped softly; the whip you bought him hung upon
the wall, and Charlie could only whisper faint words of thanks
for the flowers or fruit you brought him as you hurried homeward.
Now you have come once more to look upon him, as he
slumbers. It is fearful, all this stillness. “Charlie,” you say,
“Charlie.” Slowly the blue-veined lids uprise; the dark eyes —
your eyes — look up to your other eyes.
Strange how bright they are! You put the violets in that
tiny hand. He clasps them closely, but he whispers, “Papa,
mamma has been singing me to sleep, and now she 's calling me.
Kiss me, papa!” and with that last, fond kiss your little boy's
eyes close, and the white dimpled hands tighten over the fresh
flowers.
No need to step softly, lest you waken him. His mother
guards her boy! No, no — you need not sob, or groan. Bear
a brave heart, man!
Do you hear that carriage in the street? Do you hear the
town-clock strike, and the church-bells peal? The world is going
onward, brisk, lively, smiling as ever, with the joy-pulse
beating at its great heart; and you, what are you, that you
should make your moan, sitting there in the silence, holding your
dead boy to your breast?
“You cannot make him dead,” you say, and small need!
The earth was a cold soil for your fair flower to grow in.
The Great Gardener has transplanted it to the ever-blooming
gardens of Paradise. He is yours still! You have but nursed
an angel for heaven! You have held him on your lap, cradled
him in your arms, and when you have hushed him to rest laid
him down on the bosom of Jesus. No, to you, Charlie “is not
dead, but sleepeth!”
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