646 MARY A. SHORT. [1850-60. The closed lips part no more with breath, All still in the awful hush of death. Smooth the pillow beneath her head, Tenderly touch the beautiful dead ; Who shall part the vail for thee, And reveal this strange death-mystery? Sweetly humble, her life while here. Fitful with changing hope and fear ; Silent and pure, she walked alone, Onward and upward to the Throne ! On through a world that was cold and vain, On through bitterness, grief and pain ; Keeping her soul, 'mid trials and cares. Gentle and white with her trusting prayers. She reached at last the Beautiful Gate, No need for the weary one to wait ; — Her robes were such as the angels wear, — The Gate swung back, and she entered there ! LITTLE NELL WOOD. " What makes me so happy, so happy to- day?" Cried little Nell Wood, looking up from her play ; The while a sweet wonderment beamed in her eyes. As though 'twere a strange and delightful surprise That her heart with such gladness and joy should be stirred. And dance in her breast like a sweet sing- ing bird ! She went to the window, and while the Spring air Pushed back the bright waves of her soft, curling hair. It brought ne'er a vision of meadow and trees. Or roses or brooks, or sweet honey-bees — She saw not her lamb as it fed by the door, Or the kitten that played by her feet on the floor. And pulling her dress in a sly coaxing way, And pleadingly mewing, as much as to say— " Come, Nelly, caress me, and join in my play!" No, she saw none of these, for her thoughts were all bent Down deep in her soul, with a wondering intent, Searching out the bright sun whose beau- tiful ray, Had made her life happy, so happy that day! So happy — and still in her little vexed brain She was pondering the question again and again. As others have done, and ofttimes in vain, Wliy earth was so bright, and her glad spirit thrilled With kindness and love, and her gentle heart filled With a melody new, — when perchance on the morrow, The hours Avould darken with tintings of sorrow. 'Twas the first earnest thought of her little child-mind, Still no impulse or cause for her joy could she find, So the happy day passed in her mnocent glee. Till seated at night on her fond mother's knee. In her little white robe, all prepai-ed for her bed. And the simple petition of prayer had been said.
