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of years, as thousands of roses are contained in a few drops of their essence." The remark is no more beautiful than just. I once witnessed an incident, which made me feel its truth, though long before the sentiment itself was written. In one of the largest villages in the easterly part of Connecticut, a woman was left a widow with ten children, all but one of whom were under twenty years of age. The family had once enjoyed a competence, and looked forward to years of ease and plenty. Toward the close of the revolutionary war, the father, thinking to make a profitable speculation, disposed of a large and profitable stock in trade, and received in payment what, at the time, was called cash, but which turned out shortly after to be worthless paper bills of the old "Continental currency." These bills were laid up in his desk, and soon began to depreciate in value. The deterioration went on from day to day, and in a few months the bubble burst; and the fund, which had been hoarded to educate a family, would not buy them a breakfast. At this moment the father died.
I will not trace the history of this family through its days of destitution and poverty. It is sufficient to state that the children were scattered in various directions, and engaged in various employments, till at length all were gone, and the mother left alone, dependent on friends for a bedroom, and on the labor of her hands for her own subsistence · a precarious dependence, for to other misfortunes had succeeded the loss of health. In process of time, one of the sons, having completed his apprenticeship, hired a house for his mother, and lived with her, while he followed the occupation of a shoemaker. Thanksgiving Day came; and with it returned an opportunity to indulge in its peculiar rites, which they had not enjoyed for ten years. The two youngest boys, who lived at a distance from each other and from the parent, came HOME to keep Thanksgiving.
The festive preparations were completed. The table was spread. Around it stood a mother and three sons, who had
not been assembled together before within the remembrance of the youngest of the group. The grateful and pious mother lifted her heart and her voice to the widow's God, and uttered a blessing on that kindness which had not broken the bruised reed, and that goodness which had remembered all her sorrows, and permitted her once more to see so many of her orphan children assembled around her. Her expressions of gratitude were not finished, when the tide of affection and thanksgiving, which swelled the heart, overpowered the physical faculties. Her bosom heaved with strong convulsions, her utterance was choked, the lips could not relieve by words the emotions which filled the soul: she faltered, and would have fallen, but that the elder son caught and sustained her in his arms. Tears at length came to her relief, and the earthquake of the soul was succeeded by those grateful and affectionate sensations which can find no parallel but in a mother's heart.
It is more than forty years since this incident took place. The scene is now as fresh and bright to my imagination as it was at the moment of its occurrence. Eternity cannot obliterate its impression from my memory, and, if it could, I would not accept immortality on that condition; for that widow was MY MOTHER.
Sphere, flash'd, shrink, ask, scream, asks, ask'st, ask'd, sleep, rustl'd, rustles, rustl'st.
On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture.
O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
Those lips are thine; thy own sweet smile I see,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble-coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
The biscuit or confectionary plum;
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast