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Hanna, Abigail Stanley

"Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland"


It is a large gloomy looking room. The two windows looking out upon
the north, and a door opening out upon the level field, covered with
its carpet of green, intersected by neither shrub nor trees. The
coating of paint is changed, and the walls neatly papered, which is
the only change it has undergone.
Adjacent to this is the east bedroom, one window looking out upon the
north, and one upon the little garden at the east end of the house.
This room, for many years, was our lodging room, where we sought--
"Tired nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep,"
and lost ourselves in the world of dreams. Many, very many, were the
waking dreams that filled the imagination as the map of life lay
spread out before fancy's witching gaze, and hope illuminated it with
her brilliant rainbow dyes. No waves of passion or disappointment
moved its surface. But, oh, how different has been the reality!
Crossing the small entry opposite the kitchen is a large room,
formerly occupied by the old people. The same change is visible in
this as in the other rooms. Here, day after day, sat our aged aunt,
reading the word of God or her favorite hymns, and seeking preparation
for death (for she was fourscore and ten years old), and had been a
member of the church of Christ from her nineteenth year, spending a
long life to his honor and glory. It was the winter of the year, but
a mild day, when on returning from school we were summoned to her
bedside.


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