THE CHILD IN THE GRAVE [1]
across a field
that led to the churchyard. No one saw her as she walked, nor did
she see any one; for her eyes were fixed upon the one object of her
wanderings. It was a lovely starlight night in the beginning of
September, and the air was mild and still. She entered the
churchyard, and stood by the little grave, which looked like a large
nosegay of fragrant flowers. She sat down, and bent her head low over
the grave, as if she could see her child through the earth that
covered him- her little boy, whose smile was so vividly before her,
and the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on his sick-bed, she
could not forget. How full of meaning that glance had been, as she
leaned over him, holding in hers the pale hand which he had no longer
strength to raise! As she had sat by his little cot, so now she sat
by his grave; and here she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon
it.
"Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child," said a
voice quite close to her,- a voice that sounded so deep and clear,
that it went to her heart.
She looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a black
cloak, with a hood closely drawn over his face; but her keen glance
could distinguish the face under the hood. It was stern, yet
awakened confidence, and the eyes beamed with youthful radiance.
"Down to my child," she repeated; and tones of despair and
entreaty sounded in the words.
"Darest thou to follow me?" asked the form. "I am Death."
She bowed her head in token of assent. Then suddenly it appeared
as if all the stars were shining with the radiance of the full moon on
the many-colored flowers that decked the grave. The earth that covered
it was drawn back like a floating drapery. She sunk down, and the
spectre covered her with a black cloak; night closed around her, the
night of death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could
penetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then the cloak
was removed, and she found herself in a large hall, of
wide-spreading dimensions, in which there was a subdued light, like
twilight, reigning, and in a moment her child appeared before her,
smiling, and more beautiful than ever; with a silent cry she pressed
him to her heart. A glorious strain of music sounded- now distant, now
near. Never had she listened to such tones as these; they came from
beyond a large dark curtain which separated the regions of death
from the land of eternity.
"My sweet, darling mother," she heard the child say. It was the
well-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in boundless
delight. Then the child pointed to the dark curtain. "There is nothing
so beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother, do you not see them
all? Oh, it is happiness indeed."
But the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out, only the
dark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could not see as the
child saw,- he whom God has called to be with Himself. She could
hear the sounds of music, but she heard not the words, the Word in
which she was to trust.
"I can fly now, mother," said the child; "I can fly with other
happy children into the presence of the Almighty. I would fain fly
away now; but if you weep for me as you are weeping now, you may never
see me again. And yet I would go so gladly. May I not fly away? And
you will come to me soon, will you not, dear mother?"
"Oh, stay, stay!" implored the mother; "only one moment more; only
once more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss thee, and press thee to
my heart."
Then she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name was
called from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in a plaintive
voice.
"Hearest thou?" said the child. "It is my father who calls
thee." And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of children
weeping. "They are my sisters," said the child. "Mother, surely you
have not forgotten them."
And then she remembered those she left behind, and a great
terror came over her.
that led to the churchyard. No one saw her as she walked, nor did
she see any one; for her eyes were fixed upon the one object of her
wanderings. It was a lovely starlight night in the beginning of
September, and the air was mild and still. She entered the
churchyard, and stood by the little grave, which looked like a large
nosegay of fragrant flowers. She sat down, and bent her head low over
the grave, as if she could see her child through the earth that
covered him- her little boy, whose smile was so vividly before her,
and the gentle expression of whose eyes, even on his sick-bed, she
could not forget. How full of meaning that glance had been, as she
leaned over him, holding in hers the pale hand which he had no longer
strength to raise! As she had sat by his little cot, so now she sat
by his grave; and here she could weep freely, and her tears fell upon
it.
"Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child," said a
voice quite close to her,- a voice that sounded so deep and clear,
that it went to her heart.
She looked up, and by her side stood a man wrapped in a black
cloak, with a hood closely drawn over his face; but her keen glance
could distinguish the face under the hood. It was stern, yet
awakened confidence, and the eyes beamed with youthful radiance.
"Down to my child," she repeated; and tones of despair and
entreaty sounded in the words.
"Darest thou to follow me?" asked the form. "I am Death."
She bowed her head in token of assent. Then suddenly it appeared
as if all the stars were shining with the radiance of the full moon on
the many-colored flowers that decked the grave. The earth that covered
it was drawn back like a floating drapery. She sunk down, and the
spectre covered her with a black cloak; night closed around her, the
night of death. She sank deeper than the spade of the sexton could
penetrate, till the churchyard became a roof above her. Then the cloak
was removed, and she found herself in a large hall, of
wide-spreading dimensions, in which there was a subdued light, like
twilight, reigning, and in a moment her child appeared before her,
smiling, and more beautiful than ever; with a silent cry she pressed
him to her heart. A glorious strain of music sounded- now distant, now
near. Never had she listened to such tones as these; they came from
beyond a large dark curtain which separated the regions of death
from the land of eternity.
"My sweet, darling mother," she heard the child say. It was the
well-known, beloved voice; and kiss followed kiss, in boundless
delight. Then the child pointed to the dark curtain. "There is nothing
so beautiful on earth as it is here. Mother, do you not see them
all? Oh, it is happiness indeed."
But the mother saw nothing of what the child pointed out, only the
dark curtain. She looked with earthly eyes, and could not see as the
child saw,- he whom God has called to be with Himself. She could
hear the sounds of music, but she heard not the words, the Word in
which she was to trust.
"I can fly now, mother," said the child; "I can fly with other
happy children into the presence of the Almighty. I would fain fly
away now; but if you weep for me as you are weeping now, you may never
see me again. And yet I would go so gladly. May I not fly away? And
you will come to me soon, will you not, dear mother?"
"Oh, stay, stay!" implored the mother; "only one moment more; only
once more, that I may look upon thee, and kiss thee, and press thee to
my heart."
Then she kissed and fondled her child. Suddenly her name was
called from above; what could it mean? her name uttered in a plaintive
voice.
"Hearest thou?" said the child. "It is my father who calls
thee." And in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of children
weeping. "They are my sisters," said the child. "Mother, surely you
have not forgotten them."
And then she remembered those she left behind, and a great
terror came over her.