<h2><SPAN name="chap77"></SPAN>UNFADING PICTURES</h2>
<p>(“The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of
the flowers…. The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my
aunt’s inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the
bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two
canaries, the old china … and, wonderfully out of keeping with the rest, my
dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.”<br/>
—“David Copperfield,” Chapter XIII.)</p>
<p class="poem">How many are the scenes he limned,<br/>
With artist strokes, clear-cut and free—<br/>
Our Dickens; time shall not efface<br/>
Their charm, and they will ever grace<br/>
The halls of memory.<br/>
<br/>
Oft and again we turn to them,<br/>
To contemplate in pleased review;<br/>
And like some picture on the screen<br/>
Comes now to mind a favorite scene<br/>
His master-pencil drew:—<br/>
<br/>
Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep,<br/>
I see a small lad, spent and worn,<br/>
And by the window, stern and grim,<br/>
A silent figure watching him,<br/>
So dusty, ragged, torn.<br/>
<br/>
Ah, now she rises from behind<br/>
The round green fan beside her chair;<br/>
“Poor fellow!” croons-and pity lends<br/>
Her voice new softness-and she bends<br/>
And brushes back his hair.<br/>
<br/>
Then in his sleep he softly stirs.<br/>
Was that a dream, these murmured words?<br/>
He wakes! There by the casement sat<br/>
Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat<br/>
And her canary birds.<br/>
<br/>
The peaceful calm of that quaint room,<br/>
Its marks of comfort everywhere—<br/>
Old china and mahogany<br/>
And blowing in, fresh from the sea,<br/>
The perfume-laden air.<br/>
<br/>
Poor little pilgrim so bereft,<br/>
So weary at his journey’s end!<br/>
What joy must then have filled his soul<br/>
To reach at last such happy goal—<br/>
To find—oh, such a friend!…<br/>
<br/>
And then night came, and from his bed<br/>
He saw the sea, moonlit and bright,<br/>
And dreamed there came, to bless her son,<br/>
His mother, with her little one,<br/>
Adown that path of light.<br/>
<br/>
Ah, greater blessing I’d not crave,<br/>
When my life’s pilgrimage is o’er,<br/>
Than such repose, content, and love;<br/>
Some shining path that leads above<br/>
To dear ones gone before!<br/></p>
<p class="left">
LOUELLA C. POOLE</p>
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