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THE FLOWERY GRAVE.
E=
About the green and lonely tomb
The roses and the lilies bloom
That sweetly scent the summer air,
Although they seem devoid of care;
But she who lies beneath the sod
le now immortal with her God.
When winter to the bills had flown,
And lovely spring delightsome shone,
It was a lovely sister fair
'Whose fingers did arrange them there,
With bending form and weeping eyes,
That they may tell where sister lies."
At early dawn and twilight, gray
'Twits her accustomed place, to stray,
And watch beside her sister's tomb,
To see the rose and lily bloom;
To dream of past. and present bliss
In worlis beyond, no more in this.
Upon the grave, in summer hours,
She laid her head among the flowers;
And watched them bloom, ittid saw. theni fade;
And then a fairy garland made
Across her brow and flowing hair,
She wore it a memento there. '•
.1t each returning eit"ringitts,tomb
Is decked iu all its former bloom;
lint she no more, at, eve or dawn,
Is seen returning o'er the lawn, •
To bathe with tears the withering hues,
Nor heard to bid them sad adieus. •
And yet, abqut the lonely tomb,
The roses and the lilies bloom.
but she whose care arranged them there,
With all a sister's love and care,
Has realized her hope—to see
filer sinter in Eternity. • -
elloob
EFFIE.
BY AGNES HERBERT
Effie stood watching the clouds from the
little garret window up over the wood-shed.—
She stood idly and dreamily, with her arms
crossed upon the sill, and her eyes fixed upon
the gloomy blackness which was rapidly sweep
ing up over thee blue sky, when a' &sir below
opened and a sharp yet not unpleakadt voice,
called,
41Effte
Effie gave one morellance atthe disrVatarrn
clouds, and then turned and'Ain'ti l dekly'cleifn
the old ricketty, creaking gaits. At their . toot
stood her aunt, a tall, thin woman of about
fortylve, with a peculiar Martha-like look of
care impressed upon her features.
Martha Myers was the eldest and only re
maining maiden sister of a large family, or
rather what had once been such. Long years
before our story opens the father and mother
had passed over the dark river. Then came
successive changes, as one by one the ohildren
grew up and went forth into the world, or
sought the shadow of another home. At length
there remained only Sarah, the 'eldest of the
family ; Jamas, who was soup two years her
juuiur ; and Mary,,the,youngest, a lovely girl
of seventeen.
Mary had been the pet and idol of the family.
There never were such laughing blue eyes,
such beautiful brown curls, or such rosy cheeks
as little sister Mary's. Aud, then, who had so
sweet a laugh, such winning ways, or so affec
tionate a disposition as Mary ? From her cra
dle she ever reigned the household queen.
James and Martha Myers were molt alike
—both eminently practical, both grave, order
ly and methodical. Upon their shoulders had
fallen the weight of duty and responsibility as
the guardians and chief supporters of an or
phan family ; and while the duties had been
well performed, and the responsibility accepted
with unshrinking trust, it had had the effect of
moulding their natures into a different cast
from those of the younger and care-free mem
bers of the family. But as the river flows un
seen, underneath its icy covering, so there were
warm, honest hearts lying beneath the practi
cal every-dayish surfac'e appearance of James
and Martha.
Mary was now their only charge, and oecu•
pied the highest place in their hearts. But it
Was not until she had reached her eighteenth
year, and was about to leave them for another,
that they knew how well they loved her.
A young artist, visiting in their neighbor
hood, saw Mary, was struck with her beauty,
and after worshipping at a distance for some
time, sought her acquaintance and succeeded in
winning her heart. He was worthy; and,
although poor, was talented, and bid fair to
attain success in his profession.
The young people removed to a western
city, and for a time fortune smiled upon.thetn.
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.Tjri-e-Az
VOL-1111
There came long letters from Mary, and full
of bright hopes and overflowing with happiness
as she heraelt had ever been.
Two years elapsed, and the letters grew less
buoyant and hopeful. Then there was a long
silence; and when, after weeks of anxiety,
James was about starting for the west, there
came a letter with a black seal. It was from
Mary—a few lines written in a weak, trembling
hand, told of her husband's death, of the pre
vious loss of their little all, through the fail
ure of one they had trusted, and of her own
severe illness and partial recovery.
The nest morning James and Martha started
for the west. In a few weeks they returned.
bringing with then) a little girl sothe two years
old—Mary's child. They had reached the
`liedside of their sister only in time to listen to
a few last loving words, and to receive from her
the _charge of her orphan child. Oh ! the
dreary bitter weight of sorrow which they
brought buck to their lovely home.
It is now four years since Effie came to the
little old red' house--the old home of her moth
er. - She had proved a blessing and a' consola
tion to jetnes and Martha, for she had beeitio
them' the grand necessity of the human hert
--'something to love.' It Wei` perhaps more
for her mother's sake than her own that it was
With the child, individually and aldne,
they had little sympathy—they could not un
derstand her, but she was Mar.y's child; and
foi this they loved her. • :
She 'was very unlike, both 'personally' 'arid
mentally, what her mother had beeri. Her
heir . hring in 'jetty half waging, half 'curling;
tresses' around a strangely characteriatic and
beautiful fade. A broad high forehead, deli
cately pencilled and arehed brows, large black
eyes, shaded by . long lasheS, clear, yet dark
complexion, with a faint' rose tinge upon the
rounded cheek, and a sweet - childish mouth
with dimples and cherry lips—the only featUie
whiclt'seemed childlike.
Sh'e was fond of being alone, and would sit,
with her large eyes dreamily flied, übconkious
of- what was passing about her 'for hours.—
..kunt Martha found it nearly impossible to in-
itiate her into the"mysteries' of sewing and
•
knitting; notthit ste did 'not possess aptitude
to lettiorbUt beeluae could' not fii'hei'it
tention upon the work for fivasude'esinVd eiin'-
utes. And 'Pet, as she said, Ale bent& rat i fied
it' kr' hir 'heart 'te scold iferePinve hei 'Haigh ly,
foethe'child's eyee'Weilld gaze. ivitlea'
, • .
startled expression up'into heiliee,atiil then,
with a grieved look, seek her work, leaving
Martha to'reproach herself much wore severe-
ly thab she had Effie.
And now to go bark to the commencement
of my story. Aunt Martha tocile the child by
the hand'and led her out of the Woodshed, and
into the house, before she said,
'What on earth' have you been doing uf
there all alone, Effie?'
"'The "child looked - 1r shjdiinto her aunt's
face as if - to see whhther'an answer was requir
ed, and then said—
'Only diluting:'
'Thinking I what were - you thinking about ?'
'The clouds, and the winds, and—oh ! 1
can't tell it,' said the child, in a distressed
voice, as the difference between her dreary,
poetic reveries and the plain matter of-fact re
ply
which her aunt stood waiting to hear, jar
red upon her sensitive nery a.
4Well,.Effie, take your patchwork now and
finish that block you commenced this morn-
IMICZINIMI
n g .'
With a weary-little sigh the child obeyed;
but, ere she had taken many stitches. the storm,
whose mutterings had grown louder and nearer,
was at hand. The-wind,-which had br.en wail
ing plaintively around the - hhUse. l n increas
ed to a hoarse rushing gale, and the creaking
gate was slammued to with a, force that seemed
sufficient to break-it-offlthe-hinges. The peals
of thunder; which had seemed like the boOrn•
tug of distant cannon, now came quick and
sharp, as if a million pieces of artillery were
being discharged aver the roof of the old build
ing. The flashes "Of ifkhtiiing which momen
tarily lit up the, gathering gloom seemed to
pass, in, broadsheets through .the room where
Effie and her aunt were seated.
'Dear me !' said the latter 'where can James
stay so ? He'll be caught iu the shower , I'm
afraid.'
Effie put down her work and went to the
door just as her uncle at pped into the porch.
A few large drops had fallen upo,the planks
which led to the well, and were spattered in
the dry dust of the path.
'Just in time,' said Uncle James. will
be here in a moment; listen.'
There was a roaring, rushing sound as of
mighty waters in the distance. • The next in-
!GREENCASTLE, PA., TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1863.
stant a flash of lightning, accompanied almost
instantaneously by a heavy clap of thunder,
was followed by a deluge of rain. It came
down in torrents, mingled with incessant peals
of thunder and blinding flashes of lightning.
Aunt Martha had lain by her work ; not
that she was affected by the sublimity of the
storm, but because it had grown too dark to
see well. Uncle James had seated himself in
an old arm chair, and Effie stood quietly by his
side.
'Are you afraid, Effie ?' asked Uncle James,
as he saw that her face was pale, and her eyes
were looking with a strange light out upon the
storm
She shook' her head slightly, but did not
turn or withdraw her gaze for several moments.
Then, with a sudden Start she sprang from his
side and darted out of the door, out into the
wild storm.
'James and Martha could hardly believe their
senses, and each turned to the other, as if
seeking c6nfa:ination' of what' they half doubt
ed. Uncle Jamefi caught up his hat and rush
ed to the door, pausing a moment involuntarily
upon the porch` assheets of 'falling rain came
dosin' before" her, while iuut Martha exClaiw
ed---
'Mercy on me! Is the child mad ?'
In a few moments James entered, bearing
Effie in his arms. Her eyes were closed,,and
the dark hair was streaming over a face as pale
as marble, while her dripping garments clung
closely to tier little form.
'She has fainted, I guess,' said James, as he
gave her into his sister's arms and threw off
h'is wet coat.
'Bring me the camphor-bottle = quick F ex
claimed Martha., And pouring some out into
her hand si.e dashed it into the child's face
and
. commenced eneregetically chaffing brow,
che4n and hands'. Soon a slightstidder ran
over the little frame, and a feeble moan issued
from the parting lips,
'She'll come to in a minute now. Build a
good hot fire, James; we must get her warm
as quick as possible.'
James bestirred himself to gather dry wood
and kiudlings, while Martha commenced taking
off Effie's dripping clothes. By the time a
brisk fire was burning in the stove Martha had
robed the child in her , night-gown • and now
wrapping her up in some warm blankets, she
placed her in the old roomy rocking-chair—in
Which pillows had been arranged so as to form
a comfortable couch—atid drew it up `by the
side of the stove.
'She is asleep,' said Martha, as James bent
over the child, and then laid his hand gently
upon her pale brow. 'She opened her eyes
once while I was undressing her, but seemed
to fall asleep in a moment. You see she
breathes singularly.'
'Well, Martha, what do you suppose p r os
sessed her to run out in, that way ?' inquired
James.
can't imagine,' replied his sister. 'Effie
is the strangest child I ever saw. I almost
think, sometimes, she must be crazy; but
where was, she ? where did you find her ?'
,'Leaning against the well-curb, with her
head thrown back, and the rain dashing right
into her face. It was enough to take her
breath away—but I don't think she was quite
unne when I reached her.'
'Dear me 1 well, if she isn't sick after this,
I'm sure I shall be thankful,' said Maitha.
Meanwhile. the storm had abated, though
the rain was falling; and Martha resumed, her
sewing, while, James took frotn a .drawer in
the old-fashioned bureau.a small.:leather-cov
ered account book and commenced and inves
tigatinu of its contents. About au hour passed
—the silence, broken only as-James or Martha
arose to look at the sleeping child. Then,
folding her work and, placing it carefully in
the. work-basket with Effie's poor little unfit),
fished patchwork, Martha commenced prepara
tions for :tea. There is a real pleasure in
watching' the movements of.a, skillful house
keeper.. Nu hurry, no wismoves, no confusion.
but the object to be accomplished is performed
with such a smooth, steady uniformity of pur
pose and -movement, that a careless observer
would scarcely notice its 'celerity. Martha
Myers was a perfect specimen of a model
housekeeper.
Soon, very 'soon, tbe.little table stood spread
with : a tempting repast, arranged upon the
snowy cloth with mathematical precision. The
butter plate occupied the exact centre, and the
dried beef, the honey, the cheese, the baked
apples, the sponge cake and the cookies were
placed in as 'regular order around it as though
the whole was meant to represent the solar
system—the little pat of golden butter being
the sun. One empty corner remained for the
biscuit, which were not yet quite done.
'Shall you wake her ?' said James, looking
at Effie, as he saw that tea was most ready.
'No, she had better sleep as long as she
wants to; 1 can get her some supper when
she wakes up,' replied Martha, as she filled
•
the tea-pot.
At this moment the child opened her eyes.
She looked puzzled for a moment, as she sur
veved herself and her surroundings; ,and then
seeming to remember and comprehend, a flush
rose to her brow, and she suddenly dropped
her eyes as they encountered Uncle James'
curious and searching glance.
'How do you feel, Effie?' inquired Martha,
pausing by the child's side with the, pan of
biscuit in one hand, and throwing back the
outer covering with the other.
'My head aches a little,' replied Effie, with
out raising her eyes.
'Well, sit up here to the table, and drink
some tea and eat something, and I guess it
will feel better;' and Martha suited the action
to the word by drawing the chair up to the
table. 'Come, Effie,' she urged, as she ob
• .
served that the child did not taste of the his
cult and honey she had placed before her, and
%vas only playing with her tea-spoon: 'do try
and eat a little.'
'I don't want anything, Aunt Martha ; I'm
not hungry; and leaning back in her chair,
Effie closed her eyes languidly.
Martha's face wore an expression of anxiety,
which was deepened when, after tea, she came
out of the little room where she bad been to
put Effie to bed.
'I am really afraid, James, Effie is going
•
to he sick; she has considerable fever now,
and she looks strangely.'
'Have you said anything to her yet about
her running nut in the storm?'
'I thought we had better not speak about it
until she bad recovered froth the effect of it;
but'—she added, dropping her voice to a whis•
per—'she has told me the reason of ti herself.'
James looked surprised at his sister's man
ner, but awaited impatiently for her to proceed,
fur she had stopped and, ileerned much moved.
! I •7hadi,lll l 9 ) er,,PlOY keV , Xartha-Alon-
tinue,d just mowing _out, when she said,
'Stop a minute, 4unt Martha •'..and whew I
went back to her she., took hold of my hand
and held it as
_tight i as -though she was afraid I
would get away from her, while she said--4
want to tell you why I ran out in the rain, so
that you and Uncle James won't think me
Siieh'a naughty girl. You know Uncle James
read in the Bible this morning about the flood,
and how the windows of Heaven were opened•
And when the rain came down so this after
noon I was thinking about that, and, wondering
if they wasn't open then; when, Aunt Martha,'
said she, heard my naive called—and I knew
it was my mother. It sounded . just as I've
heard it when I've dreanied'abOut her; and I
knew that the :windows of Heaven were open,
and I couldn't help running out in the rain to
look up. Yoa know I wanted to see my mother
so much—but I couldn't see her, Aunt Mar
tha; the rain blinded me, and I could only
see the light, and Ilelt so half—and I don't
remember anything more until I woke up in
the rocking-chair.'
Martha's voice bad trembled with emotion
while repeating the child's story, and now she
burst into tears. James arose and walked to
the'door, where he remained some time. At
length, turning round, he said in a husky
voice—
'Did she say anything more 7'
she let go my hand and shut her eyes
withetit 'another . word;' and Martha wiped
away her tears with her'aprun and commenced
clearing the table: '
At nine o'clock that evening Effie had grown
worse; .her cheeks were flushed with fever, and
she moaned Painfully in her sleep. Martha
had soaked her feet, and made various kinds of
herb tea, but her skill in medicine extended no
farther, and now, as she stood watching the
child, she turned to James, saying--
'I can do no more, and she is growning worse
17'4)6' must ga 'foi - t he doctor.'
Without a word James put on his overcoat,
diiwn theiantern and went out to the
barn, whence, in a few minutes, he drove off
at'a rapid rate. An hour - had perhaps elapsed
ere he returned with the physician. floater
Brown was a pleasant, kindly looking man, and,
with a cheerful smile, which give ilicourage
men to James and Martha, - he l ipPiiiached the
couch of the little sufferer. But: after having
felt her pulse, and laid her hand upou the
heated bro*, a serious shade passed over his
features.
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'She has a very high fever,' he said; 'how
long since she was taken,
'Only a few hours,' Martha replied.
After another and more searching examina
tion of her symptoms, he sat down to deal out
a nue medicine, and gave directions for its admin
istration.
cannot decide conclusively as to the nature
of the disease as yet—but I think it will prove
to be brain fever. I can tell by morning, and
will call early,' lie said, rasing to depart.
'But, doctor', said Martha, in a trembling
voice, 'isn't brain fever very dangerous?'
'Oh, well—it is generally considered so—but
then don't be alarmed ; will try and conquer it.
I have never lust a case with it yet. Good
night;' and the doctor bowed himself out.
Morning confirmed Doctor Brown's supposi
tion of the night previous. Effie was now de
lirious, and tossed sleeplessly upon her pillow
—her large black eyes staring wildly about,
yet seeming to observe , nothing; her cheeks
flushed with the fever heat to a purplish crim
son, and her dark hair, which Aunt Martha
found impossible to cousne, was floating wildly
about her face.
It is strange how much beauty is sometimes
impressed upon the face by the disease that
threatens to cut off youth, beauty and life to
gether.
Effie had never looked so truly beautiful as
now ; and James and Martha watched over her
with a painful unexpressed feeling of self-re
proach in their hearts, which, interpreted into
words, would have been that she had by them
never been half appreciated. -
Several days passed by and she grew no bet
ter. Skillful physicians were sent for from a
distance as counsel; but they were alike incapa
ble of checking the progress of the disease.
At lentgh, however, it seemed arrested.—
The child lay in a kind of stupor, unconsc'o•is
of everything, and scarcely moving a finger;
but there was a preceptible change. They flat
tered themselves that, as she was not growing
worse, she must certainly be better.
One morning, as Martha was siding by the
bed side, Effie looked up intelligently—the
wild, 'unmeaning stare was gone.
'Aunt Martha,' she said, in a feint , and tram-
bling tone.
' , What is it, Effie r and Mirth* bent over
her with a heart swellin. , with hope and thank
fulneis.
want to see Uncle James.'
,
'Yea; darling, I will call him,' and she
bent' down and kissed Efio's forehead before
leaving her
'Effie is much better this Morning ; she is
sensible and wants to see you,' said Martha, as
she entered the kitchen where James was seat.
ed at the breakfast-table.
James'arose quickly and a happy smile pas
sed like a•sunbeam over his stern features.
At this. moment Doctor Brown entered the
room.
'How is the child this morning ?' he inquir
ed, as he dreii off his gloves and deposited his
hat upon the stand..
'Martha was just telling me that she was
better,' said James, as he followed Martha, and
preceded the doctor to Effie's room.
They all' went up to the bedside. She look -
ed up into their faces, smiling faintly, as she
recognized the.doctor. =He did not .smile in
return. He took the little wasted hand in his
a moment, and then gently putting it down,
Walked rapidly away to ihe window.
'Uncle James. said Effie, in a voice hardly
above .a whisper, 'and' Aunt Martha, I have
seen mamma, and she wants me to come up
there; and Effie looked through the window
upwards into the clear blue morning sky, with
eyes which seemed to fathom its depths.
wanted to say good bye to you before I went,
and she grasped a hand of each in her little
skeleton fingers.
James turned to the doctor '
whO stood look
ing on with pitying eyes, and understood the
mute unspoken appeal. He shook his head,
and then, as Martha , looked up imploringly,
said, tremulously,
'She is dying.'
Dying! A moment of mad unbelief, and
then as conviction pierced their hearts—of si
lent horror. James sank into a chair and on , -
ered his face with his bands, while deep subs
shook' his frame
'Oh, Effie! Effie! my darling!' exclaimed
Martha. as she bent over her, 'do not leave us,
Effie, my child; we cannot live without , you 1'
and her tears fell like rain upon the little hand
which was even now growing cold.
The child's dark eyes were fixed mounfully
u; on
.thetn ; a gray shadow crept over h.r face;
her lips moved ; and, in a voice broken by
short, quick gasps fur breath, she said—
, 'I must—go to—mamma. The windows—
of Heaven—are—open.'
A. few more hurried gasps and all was over.
Effie had gone, and the beautiful form lying so
.cold and still—while bitter tears of %m..tuisli
and despair bathed its pale face—was but in
animate clay.
With the grief of those lonely - once our pen
has naught to do; but for on- eel es, when death
bus torn away our heart's idol. let us remem
ber that the 'windows of Heaven are opstk.'
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