It was a late hour when Mr. Jenks and myself passed to our homes. The next day Evelina and her father were coseyly quartered at the house in which Egbert had boarded.
In the course of a a few weeks they arranged to go to the west, and locate in a flourishing town on the banks of the Ohio, not many miles above Cincinnati.
Mr. Jenks and myself accompanied them to the cars; and, amid our best wishes for their success, and their countless expressions of gratitude to us, the train started, and in a few moments the Disinherited was going to an inheritance which God had provided, and which lay in rich profusion awaiting their possession.
Our hearts went with them. We could truly say they were worthy God’s blessing; yet we had not need ask him to bestow it upon them; for their very existence was a proof that he gave it to them.
THE seasons all are beautiful, There is not one that’s sad,— Not one that does not give to thee A thought to make thee glad. I have heard a mournful cadence Fall on my listening ear,— ’T was some one whispering, mournfully, “The Autumn days are here.” But Autumn is not sorrowful,— O, full of joy is it; I love at twilight hour to watch The shadows as they flit,— The shadows of the falling leaves, Upon their forest bed, And hear the rustling music tones Beneath the maiden’s tread. The falling leaf! Say, what has it To sadden human thought? For are not all its hours of life With dancing beauty fraught? And, having danced and sang its joy, It seeketh now its rest,— Is there a better place for it Than on its parent’s breast? Ye think it dies. So they of old Thought of the soul of man. But, ah, ye know not all its course Since first its life began, And ye know not what future waits, Or what essential part That fallen leaf has yet to fill, In God’s great work of art. Count years and years, then multiply The whole till ages crowd Upon your mind, and even then Ye shall not see its shroud. But ye may see,—if look you can Upon that fallen leaf,— A higher life for it than now The life you deem so brief. And so shall we to higher life And purer joys ascend; And, passing on, and on, and on, Be further from our end. This is the truth that Autumn brings,— Is aught of sorrow here? If not, then deem it beautiful, Keep back the intrusive tear. Spring surely you’ll call beautiful, With its early buds and flowers, Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams, And gentle twilight hours. And Summer, that is beautiful, With fragrance on each breeze, And myriad warblers that give Free concerts ’mong the trees. I’ve told you of the Autumn days, Ye cannot call them sad, With such a lesson as they teach, To make the spirit glad. And Winter comes; how clear and cold, In dazzling brilliance drest!- Say, is not Winter beautiful, With jewels on his crest? Thus are all seasons beautiful; They all have joy for thee, And gladness for each living soul Comes from them full and free.