THE OLD SAMPLER

Out of the way in a corner
Of our dear old attic room,
Where bunches of limbs from
the hillside
Shake ever in faint perfume.
An oaken chest is standing
With hasp and padlock and key,
Strong as the hands that made it
On the other side of the sea
When the winter days are dreary
And we’re out of heart with life.
Of its crowding cares a-weary
And sick of its restless strife.
We take a lesson in patience
From the attic corner dim,
Where toe chest still holds its treasures,
A warder, faithful and grim.
Robes of an ancient fashion,
Linen and lace and silk,
That time has tinted with saffron,
Though once they were white as milk.
Wonderful baby garments
‘Broidercd with loving care-
By fingers that felt, the pleasure,
As they wrought the ruffles fair.
A sword with the rod rust on it,
That flashed, in the battle tide,
When from Lexington to Yorktown
Sorely men’s souls were tried.
A plumed chapeau and buckle
And many a relic fine;
And all by itself the sampler,
Framed in with berry and vine.
Faded, the square of canvas,
And dim is the silken thread;
But 1 think of the white hands dimpled,
And a childish, sunny head.
For, here is a cross, and in tent-stitch,
In a wreath of berry and vine;
She worked it hundred years ago,
“Elizabeth, aged nine.”

In, and out, in the sunshine
The little needle flashed;
And in and out on the rainy day
When the merry drops down splashed.
As close she sat by her mother—
The little Puritan maid,
And did her piece on the sampler,
While the other children played.
You are safe in the bountiful heaven,
“Elizabeth, aged nine;”
But, before you went, you had troubles
Sharper than any of mine;
Oh! the gold hair turned with sorrow
White as the drifted snow,
And your tears dropped hero where I’m
standing—
On this very plumed chapeau.
When you put it away, its wearer
Would never need it more,
By a sword-thrust learning the secrets
God keeps on yonder shore;
And you wore your grief like glory,
You could not yield supine,
Who wrought in your patient childhood,
“Elizabeth, aged nine.”
Out or the way in a corner,
With hasp and padlock and key,
Stands the oaken chest of my fathers,
That came from over the sea;
And the hillside herbs above it
Stale odors fragrant and fine,
And hero on its lid is a garland,
To “Elizabeth, aged nine.”
For love is of the immortal.
And patience is sublime,
And trouble a thing of every day
And touching every time;
And childhood, sweet and sunny,
And womanly, truth and grace,
Ever can light life’s darkness,
And bless earth’s loneliest place.
Mrs. M. E. Sangster