Before noon the heavens are mantled with a leaden gray; the eaves, that
leaked in the glow of the sun, now tell their tale of morning's warmth
in crystal ranks of icicles. The cattle seek their shelter; the few
lingering leaves of the white-oaks rustle dismally; the pines breathe
sighs of mourning. As the night darkens, and deepens the storm, the
house-dog bays; the children crouch in the wide chimney-corners; the
sleety rain comes in sharp gusts. And as I sit by the light leaping
blaze in my chamber, the scattered hail-drops beat upon my window, like
the tappings of an OLD MAN'S cane.
I.
_What is Gone._
Gone! Did it ever strike you, my reader, how much meaning lies in that
little monosyllable--gone?
Say it to yourself at nightfall, when the sun has sunk under the hills,
and the crickets chirp,--"gone." Say it to yourself when the night is
far over, and you wake with some sudden start from pleasant
dreams,--"gone." Say it to yourself in some country churchyard, where
your father, or your mother, sleeps under the blooming violets of
spring,--"gone." Say it in your sobbing prayer to Heaven, as you cling
lovingly, but oh, how vainly, to the hand of your sweet wife,--"gone!"
Ay, is there not meaning in it? And now, what is gone,--or rather what
is not gone? Childhood is gone, with all its blushes and fairness,--with
all its health and wantoning,--with all its smiles like glimpses of
heaven, and all its tears which were but the suffusion of joy.
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