The day
changed not; the same tall trees peeped in at the windows, the
same green grass glinted in the setting sun. Only in the
chamber of death writhed the world's most piteous thing--a
childless mother.
I shirk not. I long for work. I pant for a life full of striving.
I am no coward, to shrink before the rugged rush of the
storm, nor even quail before the awful shadow of the Veil.
But hearken, O Death! Is not this my life hard enough,--is
not that dull land that stretches its sneering web about me
cold enough,--is not all the world beyond these four little
walls pitiless enough, but that thou must needs enter here,
--thou, O Death? About my head the thundering storm beat
like a heartless voice, and the crazy forest pulsed with the
curses of the weak; but what cared I, within my home beside
my wife and baby boy? Wast thou so jealous of one little
coign of happiness that thou must needs enter there,--thou, O
Death?
A perfect life was his, all joy and love, with tears to make
it brighter,--sweet as a summer's day beside the Housatonic.
The world loved him; the women kissed his curls, the men
looked gravely into his wonderful eyes, and the children
hovered and fluttered about him.
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