We knew it would be like a playhouse with the lights all put out, and the best performer dumb and silent.
It would be like the world with the sun darkened, and the moon a refusin’ to give its light. We think enough of Thomas Jefferson—yes, indeed.
Oh, how glad little Snow wuz to see us! And right here, while I am a talkin’ about her, I may as well tell sunthin’ about her, for it has got to be told.
Snow is a beautiful child; she becomes her name well, though she wuzn’t named for real snow, but for her mother’s sirname. I say it without a mite of partiality. Some grandparents are so partial to their own offsprings that it is fairly sickenin’.
But if this child wuz the born granddaughter of the Zar of Russia or a French surf, I should say jest what I do say, that she is a wonderful child, both in beauty and demeanor.
She has got big violet blue eyes—not jest the color of her Pa’s, but jest the expression, soft and bright, and very deep-lookin’. Their gaze is so deep that no line has ever been found to measure its deepness.
When you meet their calm, direct look you see fur into ’em, and through ’em into another realm than ourn, a more beautiful and peaceful one, and one more riz up like, and inspired.
I often used to wonder what the child wuz a lookin’ for, her eyes seemed to be a lookin’ so fur, fur away, and always as if in search of sunthin’. I didn’t know what it wuz, but I knew it wuzn’t nuthin’ light and triflin’, from her looks.
Some picture of holiness and beauty, and yet sort o’ grand like, seemed before her rapt vision. But I couldn’t see what it wuz, nor Josiah, nor her Pa, nor her Ma.
Her hair is a light golden color, not yeller, nor yet orbun, but the color of the pure pale shiny gold you sometimes see in the western heavens when the sky is bright and glowin’.