She followed her children into that dull little den, and fortuitously the sun shone there for the occasion. Behold, the dauntless evergreen bush had been stripped of its leaves and upon its blossomless twigs the children had hung numerous couples of ripe cherries, white and red and black.
“What do you think of it, mum?” cried the children, snatching some of the fruit and pressing it into her hands, “what do you think of it?”
“Beautiful!” said the poor woman in a tremulous voice. They stared silently at their mother until she could bear it no longer. She turned and went sobbing into the kitchen.
CLORINDA WALKS IN HEAVEN
CLORINDA WALKS IN HEAVEN
Miss Smith, Clorinda Smith, desired not to die on a wet day. Her speculations upon the possibilities of one’s demise were quite ingenuous and had their mirth, but she shrunk from that figure of her dim little soul—and it was only dimly that she could figure it at all—approaching the pathways of the Boundless in a damp, bedraggled condition.
“But the rain couldn’t harm your spirit,” declared her comforting friends.
“Why not?” asked Clorinda, “if there is a ghost of me, why not a ghost of the rain?”