DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 257 For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. "When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." Those were her words. She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird-a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed -was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death. The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile-the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms. she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast,—the garden she had tended, -the eyes she had gladdened-the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour-the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday-could know her no more. "It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and give his tears free vent, "it is not on earth that heaven's justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed 258 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter it?" But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye; And he sang every night, as he went to bed, "Let us be happy, down here below; The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, And too hard work for his poor old bones; Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said: 'We should make life pleasant, down here below, The living need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. While the odorous night-wind whispered, There were angels waiting for him, I know; "Rest!" Gently, gently, he bowed his head— He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. A THE COMET. THOMAS HOOD. MONG professors of astronomy, And justly so, for he is hand in glove With every bright intelligence above, Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, Watching the stars, upon the house's top; That once upon a time he got benighted. In his observatory thus coquetting, With Venus or with Juno gone astray, I looked no more for it, I do declare, Than the Great Bear! As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead, It really entered in my head No more than Berenice's hair!" Thus musing, heaven's grand inquisitor Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor, Till John, the serving man, came to the upper Regions, with Please your honor, come to supper." 'Supper! good John, to-night I shall not sup, Except on that phenomenon-look up." "Not sup!" cried John, thinking with consternation That supping on a star must be star-vation, Or even to batten On ignes fatui would never fatten. His visage seemed to say, " that very odd is," But still his master the same tune ran on, "I can't come down; go to the parlor, John, And say I'm supping with the heavenly bodies." "No," said the master, smiling, and no wonder, At such a blunder, The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree; I have forgot the name just now,-you ve played the same with me, The loser had a task to do,-there, twenty years ago. The river's running just as still; the willows on its side Are larger than they were, Tom; the stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts,-pretty girls,— just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low, 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach, And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed since twenty years ago. "Twas by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago. On that same spot; 'twas played with knives, My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears by throwing so and so ; came to my eyes; |