To Raymond and Robbie they give the wisest and tenderest care. The poor all over Jonesville, and out as fur as Loontown and Shackville, bless their names.
And at Belle Fanchon, where they always lay out to spend their winters, their comin’ is hailed as the comin’ of the spring sun is by the waitin’ earth.
The errin’ ones, them from whom the robes of Pharisees are drawed away, and at whom noses are upturned, these find in my boy Thomas Jefferson and his wife true helpers and friends. They find somebody that meets ’em on their own ground—not a reachin’ down a finger to ’em from a steeple or a platform, but a standin’ on the ground with ’em, a reachin’ out their hands in brotherly and sisterly helpfulness, pity, and affection.
Dear little Snow, do you see it? As the tears of gratitude moisten your Pa’s and Ma’s hands, do you bend down and see it all? Is it your sweet little voice that whispers to ’em to do thus and so? Blessed baby, I sometimes think it is.
Mebby you turn away from all the ineffable glories that surround the pathway of the ransomed throng, to hover near the sad old earth you dwelt in once and the hearts that held you nearer than their own lives. Mebby it is so; I can’t help thinkin’ it is sometimes.
I said that the relation on Josiah’s side is still in the world, and I believe it, because we had a letter from him no longer ago than last night. I got it jest before sundown, and after Josiah handed it to me he went to the barn to onharness—he had been to Jonesville.
I sot out on the stoop under the clear, soft twilight sky of June, and the last red rays of the sinkin’ sun lay on the letter like a benediction. And under that golden and rosy light I read these words:
“My dear Cousin: Here in this distant land, where my last days will be spent, my human heart yearns over my far-off kindred.