



TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
AN EPISODE IN HUMAN LIFE. 

Gather the rose-buds while ye may, 
Old Time is still a-flying ; 
The self-same flower that blooms to-day, 
To-morrow shall be dying. 

Waar 1s Lire? What, indeed! Its enemy, 
Death, pursues it with relentless fury. Hand-in- 
hand, they walk together. One rears a blossom, 
and the other cuts it down. My watchful eye 
takes notes of this, and my pen will have much 
to say at a future time. Meantime, let me dot 
down a scene I shall never forget. 
In my daily walks into the country, I was ac- 
customed to pass a certain cottage. It was no 
cottage ornée. It was no cottage of romance. It 
had nothing particularly picturesque about it. It 
had its little garden, and its vine spreading over 
its front ; but beyond these it possessed no feature 
likely to fix it in the mind of a poet, or a novel 
writer, and which might induce him to people it 
with beings of his own fancy. In fact, it appeared 
to be inhabited by persons as little extraordinary 
as itself. A good man of the house it might 
possess—but he was never visible. The only 
inmates I ever saw were—a young woman, and 
another female in the wane of life, no doubt the 
mother. 
The damsel was a comely, fresh, mild-looking 
cottage girl enough ; always seated in one spot, 
near the window, intent on her needle. The old 
home was as regularly busied, to and fro, in house- 
hold affairs. She appeared one of those good 
housewives who never dream of rest, except in 
sleep. The cottage stood so near the road, that 
the fire at the farther end of the room showed you, 
without being rudely inquisitive, the whole in- 
terior, in the single moment of passing. A clean 
hearth and a cheerful fire, shining upon homely, 
but neat and orderly furniture, spoke of comfort ; 
but whether the dame enjoyed, or merely diffused 
that comfort, was a problem. 
I passed the house many successive days. It 
was always alike—the fire shining brightly and 
peacefully—the girl seated at her post by the 
window—the housewife going to and fro, catering 
and contriving, dusting and managing. One 
morning, as I went by, there was a change. The 
dame was seated near her daughter; her arms 
laid upon the table, and her head reclining upon 
her arms. I was sure that it was sickness which 
had compelled her to that attitude of repose— 
nothing less could have done it. I felt that I 
knew exactly the poor woman’s feelings. She 
had felt a weariness stealing upon her; she had 
wondered at it, and struggled against it, and borne 
up, hoping it would pass by, till, loth as she was 
to yield, it had forced submission. 
The next day, when I passed, the room appeared 
as usual; the fire burning, the girl at her needle. 
But her mother was not to be seen; and glancing 
my eye upwards, I perceived the blind close-drawn 
in the window above. It is so, I said to myself: 
disease is in its progress. Perhaps it occasions 
no gloomy fears of consequences, no extreme con- 
cern; and yet who knows how it may end? Itis 
this that begins these changes, that draws out 
the central bolt which holds together families— 
KIDD’S GWN JOURNAL. 

197 
which steals away our fireside faces, and lays waste 
our dearest affections. 
I passed by, day after day. The scene was the 
same. The fire was burning, the hearth beaming 
clean and cheerful. But the mother was not to 
be seen. The blind was still drawn above. At 
length I missed the girl, and in her place appeared 
another woman, bearing considerable resemblance 
to the mother, but of a quieter habit. It was 
easy to interpret this change. Disease had 
assumed an alarming aspect; the daughter was 
occupied in intense watching, and caring for the 
suffering mother, and the good woman’s sister had 
been summoned to’her bed-side—perhaps from a 
distant spot, and perhaps from her family cares, 
which no less important an event could have 
induced her to elude. 
Thus appearances continued some days. There 
was a silence around the house, and an air of 
neglect within it. One morning I beheld the 
blind drawn in the room below, and the window 
thrown open dbove. The scene was over; the 
mother was removed from her family; and one of 
those great alterations effeeted in human life, 
which commence with so little observation but 
which leave behind them such lasting effects. 
Q. 

A PARTING SONG. 
BY ELIZA COOK. 

Come, let us part with lightsome heart, 
Nor breathe one chiding sigh, 
To think that wings of rainbow plume 
So soon should learn to fly. 
We scarcely like the chimes to strike 
That tell of Pleasure’s flight, 
But Friendship’s chain, when severed thus, 
Is sure to re-unite. 
Then why not let us merry be, 
Though this song be the last, 
Believing other hours will come 
As bright as those just past ? 
The wild-bird’s song is loud and long ; 
But the sweetest and the best, 
Is whistled as he leaves the bough 
To seek his lonely nest. 
The sun’s rich beam shines through the day, 
But flashes deeper still 
While darting forth his farewell ray 
Behind the western hill. 
Then why not we as merry be, 
In this our parting strain ? 
For, like the bird and sun, we'll come 
With joy and warmth again. 
The moments fled, like violets dead, 
' Shall never lose their power ; 
For grateful perfume ever marks 
The memory’s withered flower. 
The sailor’s lay, in peaceful bay, 
With gladsome mirth rings out ; 
But when the heavy anchor’s weighed, 
He gives as blithe a shout. 
Then why not we as merry be, 
In this our parting strain, 
And trust, as gallant sailors do, 
To MAKE THE PORT AGAIN? 

