Wall, it wuz pleasant as it could be. How clost the little rivulet did seem to hold the child’s grave in its dimpled arm, and its song never said to me:
“My arm is warm and faithful, and is reaching out and reaching out to fold it round another of the nearest ones and dearest, and guard it, hold it safely from danger and from trouble.”
No, I never heard this in its song, and I never heard any undertone of pity for hearts that would break with a new grief.
No, I only heard low murmurs of compassion in its liquid tones for the achin’ hearts that had bent over this one little grave long ago.
But the trees always did seem to cast greener, softer shadows here, and the sunshine and moonlight to rest more lovingly on it than on any other spot in the hull grounds. And I didn’t wonder at all at little Snow’s fancy for it.
Oh, what a judgment that child showed in everything—it was a sight!
One mornin’ I wuz a settin’ out on the veranda, and I see her as usual a settin’ out for that corner, Snow with her arms full of toys, and Genieve wheelin’ Boy in his cart, and the front of that full of Snow’s babies settin’ up stiff and straight, a starin’ back with their round, blank eyes at Boy’s pretty, laughin’ face.
It wuz a lovely mornin’.
The dew sparkled on the grass, and the walks of white shinin’ shells which had been washed clean by a brisk, short rain the night before, shone white and silvery through the fresh, green grass borderin’ ’em on each side.
And the trees tosted out their shinin’ green branches, and the glossy-leaved shrubs shook out their sweet-scented flowers on the balmy air.