There’s a small white head stone near the gate in the Rosedale Cemetery, and Bennie’s name is on it.
“Bennie Hewitt.
Died December 25, 1883,
Aged 9 Years.”
Strangers pass it by and think nothing of it, but God knows all about that little grave and the boy sleeping there, and when the Golden City shall indeed come down and Christ’s saints be gathered home, Bennie will be with them, where there is no more night, or need of sun or moon, for the glory from the Eternal Throne transcends the light of noonday and Christ is all in all.
Does my story seem a sad one to you, my little readers? In one sense it is, and in another it is not. It is always sad to see the children die, but when like Bennie they go from cold and hunger and toil, to be forever with the Lord it is for them a blessed thing, so, on Christmas morning of 1884 do not think of little Bennie, as in the grave where they laid him one year ago, but
In that far off, happy country
Which no human eye hath seen,
Where the flowers are always blooming,