his work,--full of labors, if not of years, a long life crowded into a few years; as Bacon says, “Old in hours, for he lost no time.” Truly, he lost not an hour, from the early years,--when in his sweet, plain phrase, he tells us, “his father let the baby pick up chips, drive the cows to pasture, and carry nubs of corn to the oxen,” --far on to the closing moment when, faint and dying, he sent us his blessing and brave counsel last November, dated fitly from Rome. God granted him life long enough to see of the labor of his hands. He planted broadly, and lived to gather a rich, ripe harvest. His life, too, was an harmonious whole,--
when broughtThe very last page those busy fingers ever wrote, tells the child's story, than which, he says, “no event in my life has made so deep and lasting an impression on me. ... A little boy in petticoats, in my fourth year, my father sent me from the field home.” A spotted tortoise, in shallow water at the foot of a rhodora, caught his sight, and he lifted his stick to strike it, when “a voice within said, ‘ It is wrong.’ I stood with lifted stick, in wonder at the new emotion, till rhodora and tortoise vanished from my sight. I hastened home, and asked my mother what it was that told me it was wrong. Wiping a tear with her apron, and taking me in her arms, she said, ‘Some men call it conscience; but I prefer to call it the voice of God in the soul of man. If you listen to it and obey it, then it will speak clearer and clearer, and always guide you right. But if you turn a deaf ear or disobey, then it will fade out, little by little, and leave you in the dark and without a guide! ’ ” Out of that tearful mother's arms grew your
Among the tasks of real life, he wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought.