The last time I ever
saw him was at the terminus of the railroad, on the banks of Lake
Pontchartrain; he placed his aged arms about my shoulders, and,
pressing me to his bosom, bid me "Farewell," as, trembling with
emotion, he continued: "we are parting forever, my child." He had met
misfortunes in his latter days, and was poor, but I had filled his
purse with the means which smoothed his way the remnant of his life.
The prediction was but too true; in less than one year after that
parting, he slept in death.
And now, when war and death have swept from me children, fortune, all,
and I am old and needy, it is a consolation known only to my own bosom
that I plucked the thorn from my parent's path.
These are childish memories, and may be too puerile for record; but I
am sure most of my readers will find in them something of their own
childhood's memories. It is my memories of men and things, I am
writing, and I would be faithful to them.
Boyhood's memories crowd the after-life with half the joys its destiny
demands; associations which revive them come as pleasant showers to the
parched herbage when autumn's sun withers its flush, and yellows the
green of spring-time.
Pages:
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329