THE ALMOND BLOSSOM—FADING CHILDHOOD. 
17 
On the Saturday before my little one’s death I sat at the door or 
entrance of the front verandah, with my hoy on a pillow on my lap. 
After a while he raised himself up and looked about him. I took him 
in my arms, and walked with him towards the river; he seemed easier, 
but towards evening the disease, which had ceased for twenty-four 
hours, came on again with violence. 
We sent for the doctor, and two of the women sat up with him. He 
lay in his ayah’s arms, and death sat on his face. I saw it then for 
the first time. 
Dr. Penny, the station surgeon, came; I suppose Mr. Millar had 
brought him. He looked at the dying baby; and then, taking my hand, 
told me not to grieve if he was taken from me; he was struggling with 
death. Once again I got my boy in my arms. I walked with him 
to the further end of the verandah, where I was not under the immediate 
gaze of any one. There were some lovely golden clouds just above my 
head; I thought that these were opening to receive my baby. I was 
alone for a moment. I remember crying, in an agony of grief, - O Lord, 
take my child, and make him Thine own for ever.’ Thus far had I then 
been brought to submit, after much and long resistance against the 
Divine will; for assuredly, never did mother more reluctantly resign 
a child than I did Henry. 
Mrs. Sherwood. 
W HEN garnered is pale autumn’s sheaf, 
And days are gloomy, chill, and brief, 
Oh, not with wonder, scarce with grief, 
We pause to view 
The fading flower and seared leaf 
Our pathway strew. 
But thus to see thee bow thy head, 
And on the ground thy pale leaves shed, 
Ere thy first hour of bloom is sped. 
This wakes a sigh ; 
For visions of the early dead 
Come floating by. 
D 
