Fanny Fern

HOW soon the house shows its absence! How little the lack of her executive watchfulness is realized till, like her plants that droop for want of water, everything about the house has somehow a wilted look! For was it not "mother" who moved about, instinctively placing a bright-colored vase just where the light would most effectually fall on it, and raised a curtain, or drew it aside, from the same artistic impulse?—who opened a window here or closed it there, just at the right moment, to make the temperature of the house agreeable?—who, passing into one room, straightened a cloth that was ever so little awry upon the table, or put out of the way some carelessly placed footstool, over which some stranger foot might have stumbled; or put sofas and chairs in such neighborly and comfortable proximity, that it was really quite wonderful how they could help carrying on a conversation with each other?

Was it not "mother," who, seating herself at the table, saw on the instant if the proper geographical positions of the dishes were respected? And did she not, how weary soever with her frittering life of detail, see to it that the unities were harmoniously preserved, in spite of Erin's unteachable proclivities to the contrary, and all with a glance of her eye, or a whispered word, or a touch of her magic finger-tips?

And the children! The button is never missing at the throat of the little garment, where insidious croup essays to creep in. The tiny mittens are nicely mended, and no shoulder-strap is so tight as to impede motion or cut the tender skin, till the justly irritated child gets a boxed ear at school, which should by right have been administered to the person who planned and put on its abominable clothes—ruffled, mayhap, and embroidered, but ill-fitting, and rasping as the hair-cloth shirt of the devotee. And who but "mother" remembers whether "that poor child ate any breakfast this morning," or needs the intervening and comforting bit of bread and butter, for lack of which, again, its ears are unjustly boxed at school? And does she not plan her "shopping" and "calling," so that when the little ones come back from school or play, the house may not seem empty, who else soever may be there, because "mother" is out? No little nose in her house is flattened on the window-pane, hour after hour, watching for the presence, which alone fills the house with sunshine—settles all grievances, or else kisses them away; and always for the tired little feet substitutes soft slippers in lieu of the heavy boots. And who, at night, bathes the heated forehead and flushed face, and cools off the little hands before they are folded to say, "Now I lay me," and leaves a kiss on lips that falter with sleep at the last unsaid syllable, for it may be that in this world it will never be finished. "Mother" thinks of that.

And now, "mother" is "gone"! Oh, how much is in that little word? There is a "body" down-stairs, but that soon will go too. For the grown people it leaves behind, there may be solace, but, alas for the little child, who cannot comprehend why, when mother is "down-stairs," she can at the same time be "gone"!—who knows not how, from that narrow grave, she can "get up" to the far heaven, where they say she had flown. Alas for the little child who now is overloaded with clothing when it is warm, and has on far too little when it is needed; who goes hungry when food is imperative, and is overfed when digestion clamors for a respite; who breathes all night an already exhausted atmosphere, and sits perhaps in a deadly draught next morning! The little child who touches "mother's" work-box, and "mother's" desk, and "mother's" dresses, but never can find her! who goes to sleep with a sigh in place of a smile, and wakes up to a lonely house though filled with voices! In all the wide world there is never so empty a spot as that little heart.

And what a void is left when it is the little one who goes! "Say something to comfort you for the loss of your little one." This is what you asked of me. Nothing I could say now, my friend, would comfort you, because you are stunned, and must have time to lift your head and look about you. Then you will see myriads of little graves beside your own darling's, and myriads of mothers who have passed through the same Gethsemane, where you are now weeping tears of blood. Each of those mothers has cried out like yourself, "What sorrow was ever equal to my sorrow?" What is that to me? you ask. Listen. Many of these mothers are now thanking God, every day of their lives, that their little ones are safe from the fearful earthly storms that have since come with desolating sweep over their hearthstones. Humbly they say, "Ah! I little knew, though my Maker did, when he folded my baby safely to His protecting breast, what was in the future." Well, some day you too will cease to weep—growing unselfish—and reaching forth further each day your supplicating hands towards that heavenly home where there shall be "no more death." Having your treasure there, there will be your heart also. Said a sweet young mother to me, "Once I used to cry always, at twilight, that I must some day die. Now that my baby is gone, death has no terrors for me, for there I shall be happy with her again—and forever."

Let those who can, rob her of this her beautiful faith. When the sun shines only on the graves wept over by others, they can stand erect and say, "This world is good enough for me. I don't want any better." But see, if with the first falling clod on some dear, cold, still breast, "My God!" will not come as involuntarily to their lips as "Mother!" to the little child's, when pain overtakes it away from her protecting side.

The shining lock, the little shoe—my friend, it is long years since I shed a tear over mine—I can take them out of their wrappings in my hand, and smile to think that I am so far on my journey that I shall soon see my little one face to face. Whether she or I will be the child when we meet again, God only knows; or, what heavenly mysteries I shall learn, kneeling at my baby's feet, I cannot tell; but this I know, by the kisses I have given many a little face since she died, for her dear sake, that a mother's love was meant to reach far beyond the grave.