I have sons, and daughters, and
grandchildren, and we are assembled on some occasion of rejoicing
common to us all. It is a birthday, perhaps, or perhaps it may be
Christmas time; but be it what it may, there is rare holiday among
us; we are full of glee.
In the chimney-comer, opposite myself, sits one who has grown old
beside me. She is changed, of course; much changed; and yet I
recognise the girl even in that gray hair and wrinkled brow.
Glancing from the laughing child who half hides in her ample
skirts, and half peeps out, - and from her to the little matron of
twelve years old, who sits so womanly and so demure at no great
distance from me, - and from her again, to a fair girl in the full
bloom of early womanhood, the centre of the group, who has glanced
more than once towards the opening door, and by whom the children,
whispering and tittering among themselves, WILL leave a vacant
chair, although she bids them not, - I see her image thrice
repeated, and feel how long it is before one form and set of
features wholly pass away, if ever, from among the living. While I
am dwelling upon this, and tracing out the gradual change from
infancy to youth, from youth to perfect growth, from that to age,
and thinking, with an old man's pride, that she is comely yet, I
feel a slight thin hand upon my arm, and, looking down, see seated
at my feet a crippled boy, - a gentle, patient child, - whose
aspect I know well.
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