Later in the day, Rufus, with a penitent face, brought to his mother the letter which should have been mailed. During the rabbit hunt it had slipped out of his pocket, and one of his brothers had found it in the damp clover. It was now a sorry-looking missive.
THE OLD BROWN HAND
The hand that pressed my fevered brow
Was withered, wasted, brown,
and old;
Its work was almost over now,
As swollen veins and wrinkles
told.
No longer brushing back my hair,
It gently rested on my wrist;
Its touch seemed sacred as a prayer
By the sweet breath of angels
kissed.
I knew ’twas thin, and brown, and
old,
With many a deep and honored
seam,
Wearing one little band of gold,—
The only trace of youth’s
bright dream:
And yet o’er every mark of care,
In every wrinkle’s mystic
line,
I fancied jewels gleaming there
That wore a beauty all divine!
Another hand my fingers pressed—
’Twas like the lily
dipped in snow;
Yet still it gave a wild unrest—
A weariness that none should
know.
There pearls with costly diamonds gleamed,
And opals showed their changing
glow,
As moonlight on the ice has beamed,
Or trembled on the stainless
snow.
I caught again the old, brown hand,
And smoothed it fondly in
my own,—
A woman’s, though so old and tanned—
A woman’s—brave
and fearless grown.
Aye! it had labored long and well
To dry the tear, to soothe
the pain;
Its own strong nerve to all would tell
That life has work which brings
no shame.
We love the pretty hand that rests
In gentle fondness on our
own,
With nails like rosy calyx pressed
Upon a pearly, stainless cone;
But sacred is the healthful palm
Which smooths the ills that
round us band;
The many feel its sacred balm,
And holy seems the old brown
hand!