As we contemplate the deprivations of one situated as she was, we can but realize the blessing of having “the common use of our own limbs.”  This dear child was obliged to crawl from place to place after her more favored companions, dragging her useless perished limbs behind her.  But he who careth for us knew what was best for her, and we cannot doubt his infinite wisdom.

It were vain to endeavor to trace the destinies of all who used to sit with us, in this favorite, place.  Many have gone down to death—­many still live on the same premises where they first inhaled the breath of life, and some have gone forth into the world to fulfil a darker destiny on the broad ocean of human life, that is ever tossing its tumultuous waves before the tempestuous winds of fortune, and have been ship-wrecked upon the quick-sands of vice and dissipation.  The shady side of the picture has been presented; but those were bright and joyous days, and our school-yard resounded with the merry laugh and frolicsome mirth of childhood; yet they leave not that abiding impression upon the mind that characterizes incidents of a more sombre hue.  But we will leave the dear old school house with all its treasured memories that link it with the past, and pursue our way in some other direction.  It is hard to stop where so many images crowd upon the mind, and come stealing upon us in the shape of old familiar friends with whom we have walked side by side, day after day; but dear familiar scenes, adieu.

Chapter IV.

The Grave Yard.

Let us wander by this winding road to the place of graves, the great charnel house where so many, who were formerly actors on life’s busy stage, have laid them down in the sleep of death.  Many are the changes that meet the eye as we pass along, but there are many traces left that awaken memories of past friends and past years.  Here are the dear old trees under which we have played; the rocks upon which we have sat, and the stream on which we have sailed; but which now is greatly augmented in size, as it is now an outlet to the large reservoir of water, into which the meadow above has been converted.

Crossing the bridge and ascending the hill, let us enter the grave yard, and contemplate the change that rolling years have made in this spot;

  “Our fathers, where are they?”

Methinks the stones at our feet cry out—­“All flesh is grass.”

This is an ancient burial place; and as we look upon the dates of the headstones, how forcibly do we feel “one generation passeth away and another generation cometh.”  Many of the monuments have ceased to be a memorial; having crumbled away, and the inscriptions become entirely obliterated by the thick covering of green moss that has gathered upon them.  Is not this a lesson that is calculated to humble the pride of man?  But we will pause by the graves of the dear uncle and aunt, whose remains we saw deposited