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Page 5
* * * * *
Charley, almost at the commencement of the foregoing narrative, had
galloped away with a prodigious clatter, upon Grandfather's stick, and
was not yet returned. So large a boy should have been ashamed to ride
upon a stick. But Laurence and Clara had listened attentively, and were
affected by this true story of the gentle lady, who had come so far to
die so soon. Grandfather had supposed that little Alice was asleep, but,
towards the close of the story, happening to look down upon her, he saw
that her blue eyes were wide open, and fixed earnestly upon his face.
The tears had gathered in them, like dew upon a delicate flower; but
when Grandfather ceased to speak, the sunshine of her smile broke forth
again.
"O, the lady must have been so glad to get to heaven!" exclaimed little
Alice.
"Grandfather, what became of Mr. Johnson?" asked Clara.
"His heart appears to have been quite broken," answered Grandfather;
"for he died at Boston within a month after the death of his wife. He
was buried in the very same tract of ground, where he had intended to
build a dwelling for Lady Arbella and himself. Where their house would
have stood there was his grave.
"I never heard any thing so melancholy!" said Clara.
"The people loved and respected Mr. Johnson so much," continued
Grandfather, "that it was the last request of many of them, when they
died, that they might be buried as near as possible to this good man's
grave. And so the field became the first burial-ground in Boston. When
you pass through Tremont street, along by King's Chapel, you see a
burial-ground, containing many old grave-stones and monuments. That was
Mr. Johnson's field."
"How sad is the thought," observed Clara, "that one of the first things
which the settlers had to do, when they came to the new world, was to
set apart a burial-ground!"
"Perhaps," said Laurence, "if they had found no need of burial-grounds
here, they would have been glad, after a few years, to go back to
England."
Grandfather looked at Laurence, to discover whether he knew how profound
and true a thing he had said.
CHAPTER III.
Not long after Grandfather had told the story of his great chair, there
chanced to be a rainy day. Our friend Charley, after disturbing the
household with beat of drum and riotous shouts, races up and down the
staircase, overturning of chairs, and much other uproar, began to feel
the quiet and confinement within doors intolerable. But as the rain came
down in a flood, the little fellow was hopelessly a prisoner, and now
stood with sullen aspect at a window, wondering whether the sun itself
were not extinguished by so much moisture in the sky.
Charley had already exhausted the less eager activity of the other
children; and they had betaken themselves to occupations that did not
admit of his companionship. Laurence sat in a recess near the book-case,
reading, not for the first time, the Midsummer Night's Dream. Clara was
making a rosary of beads for a little figure of a Sister of Charity, who
was to attend the Bunker Hill Fair, and lend her aid in erecting the
Monument. Little Alice sat on Grandfather's foot-stool, with a
picture-book in her hand; and, for every picture, the child was telling
Grandfather a story. She did not read from the book, (for little Alice
had not much skill in reading,) but told the story out of her own heart
and mind.
Charley was too big a boy, of course, to care any thing about little
Alice's stories, although Grandfather appeared to listen with a good
deal of interest. Often, in a young child's ideas and fancies, there is
something which it requires the thought of a lifetime to comprehend. But
Charley was of opinion, that if a story must be told, it had better be
told by Grandfather, than little Alice.
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