The Form that bent over her cradle and whispered to her has taken her now to a close and guardin’ embrace.
Wuz it some fair, sweet messenger, some gentle angel guide, or wuz there in the hands held out to her the mark of the nails?
The glow that lit up her shinin’ hair from some radiant realm onbeknown to us wraps her round in its pure radiance.
Little Snow has gone into the Belovéd City; but alas for the hearts that strive to follow her and cannot!
But her sweet little body is a layin’ close by the side of the little girl who went to sleep there thirty years ago.
Over her is a small headstone bearin’ this inscription: “Little Snow,” and under it are the only words that can give any comfort when they are cut in the marble over a child’s grave: “He carries the lambs in His bosom.”
And so as the years go on the leaves and blossoms will rustle in the soft mornin’ breeze over the two little girls sleepin’ in peace side by side in the old garden.
I wonder if they have found each other up in the other garden that our faith looks up to—if they have made garlands of the sweet flowers that have no earthly taint on ’em and don’t fade away, and crowned each other’s pretty heads. I wonder if they ever lean over the battlements of Heaven and drop any of them sweet posies on the bare, hard pathways their friends that they left below have to walk in.
Mebby so; mebby, when in our hard, toilsome day marches, a hint of some strange brightness and glory touches our poor tired spirits, when some strange comfort and warmth seem to come sudden and sweet onto us, comin’ from we know not where—mebby, who knows, but it is from the glowin’ warmth and beauty of them sweet invisible flowers that we cannot see, but yet are a lyin’ in our pathway, droppin’ on our poor tired heads and hearts.
I don’t know as it is so, and then, agin, I don’t know as it hain’t so.