Yes, in readin’ her poetry you can see that, as she sed about the dead baby and its sorrerin’ ma, that “The crystal bars shine faint between the souls of child and mother.” You can see that the veil wuz but thin indeed between her soul and the Heaven she writes of—yes, you can almost see its light a-shinin’ through the words, and its music almost throbs through her sweet thoughts.
But to resoom. It seems almost like a beautiful dream to look back on’t, with, of course, some shadders to make the brightness seem more bright, the time we spent in Florence. One day while we wuz there we rid out to see the Tower of Pisa—Martin sed it would be expected of him to see it.
We found that Pisa wuz a dretful noisy place—dretful, and, somehow, yellin’ in a foreign language seems worse than the same yellin’ in Yankee. Howsumever, I spoze these yellers and jabberers knew their own business.
Josiah sed, as we looked up at the tower, sez he—
“You’ve always took me to task, Samantha, about my corn-house bein’ built kinder tippin’ and tottlin’. Now what do you think? This tips as much agin, and folks can’t think too much on’t, so it seems.”
“Wall,” sez I, “it has a different look to it from your edifice. I believe that will fall on you some day, Josiah Allen, and be the death on you.”
“Wall, they hain’t either on ’em fell yet; they both stand kinder tippin’, but I don’t worry about either on ’em—we knew what we wuz about when we built ’em.”
He ranked ’em both right in together, I see that he did. But this tower goes fur ahead of his edifice—fur, though it is some seven hundred years older.
It is perfectly round, the sides all fixed off in rows of pillows, and the hull thing most two hundred feet high.