Some have grown weary of idleness, pleasure and wealth, and some are
more weary of cold and starvation, and toil, the student is weary of
study, and the artist is weary of art, the vicious grow weary of vice,
and great men grow weary of fame; old men grow tired on their journey,
and children get tired at their play, it is one of those "touches of
nature" that makes our world become "kin." For a sigh is a whisper of
sorrow, no matter what breast may have heaved it, and pain is a pall,
thick and heavy, laid over hopes that are dead.
Some of us have strange lives! secrets, known only to ourselves, that
change the face of all nature before our eyes, we are sent adrift on
every passing current, to explore the truths of experience for
ourselves, and sad lessons some of them are, which we read through our
gathering tears, and learn with a beating heart!
As the autumn months drifted on towards a bleak November, I became
more and more absorbed, looking wistfully out of the windows, or
sitting dreamily before the fire. I often thought of that better land,
whither my angel-mother had flown years ago, my father had gone there
now, too. Would it not be well if I were with them? Only one more
little mound of earth, rising beside theirs, one solitary little
mortal falling back from the weary pilgrimage, and lying down to rest
by the roadside, one heavy heart less among that throbbing multitude,
one faint toiler more, borne from the crowded vineyard.
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