Australian Tales - Setis

often wander in rapture, tinged with melancholy. Accompany me, in
imagination, into a humble, though comfortable cottage, in one of the
rural parts of old England. 'Tis a cold winter's day; the leafless
hedgerows are white with rime, and the north-east wind is howling
through the tree-tops, like the weird voice of famine. Inside that cottage
we see an aged widow bowed down with grief. She is sitting all alone,
mourning for dear ones recently gone to the grave. She is sighing, too,
for an absent son, far away — one whose manly arm she at one time
fondly hoped would be the stay of her declining strength; whose youthful
energy would be exerted to minister to her wants, when age and infirmity
precluded all active efforts on her part. “Ah!” she sighs, “I once had a
devoted son beside me, whose fond embrace often cheered my widowed
heart, and whose endearing words often lightened my heavy burden of
anxiety. Frequently in his boyhood days has he hung about my neck, and
whispered in my comforted ears — dear mother!
‘When thou art feeble, old, and grey,
My healthful arm shall be thy stay!’
“Yes, he sincerely meant it too; and, were he near me now, he would
shield me to the utmost of his power from aught that threatens my
comfort and peace. But ah, dear boy! little does he know my present
indigence, or, far as he is from me, he would find means to succour me. I
will not doubt his affection. How can I? But he is far away from me, and
months must elapse before I can let him know my position. Meantime, I
am here alone — bereaved, and overwhelmed with sorrow. Gaunt
poverty is at my door, and my threadbare purse contains my last shilling.
Very soon my little household comforts, and all those treasured
mementoes of happier days must be sacrificed to supply my actual
necessities. My lot is hard, and I cannot but weep over it.
“But, praise God! though cast down, I am not in despair,” says the
widow, as a gleam of heavenly sunshine makes her smile through her
tears. “I am not alone, for the ‘God of the widow’ hath promised never to
leave me, nor forsake me. ‘I will trust and not be afraid.’ ” She reaches a
book from a shelf beside her — the Bible — whose sacred pages her late
beloved husband had often bedewed with tears of joy and gratitude
during long years of sickness. “This precious book abounds with
comforting promises,” says the widow, “and they are all as sure as the
glories of Heaven.” She opens the book, and reads a text specially
marked by the pencil of her late afflicted husband. “I have been young,
and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed
begging bread.”
But look outside the cottage again for a moment, reader! See the
village postman hastily approaching with his letter-bag strung before