Children have been born, and one we carried over the hill to the
churchyard with tears for the baby we had lost. But He to whom we
gave it back has turned our grief to joy. Of all our babies, the
one we lost is the only one we have kept. The others grew out of
our arms; I hardly remember them in their little white slips. But
he is our baby forever. Fifteen happy years of peace have they
been, for love held the course.
It was when the daisies bloomed in the spring that the children
brought in armfuls from the fields, and bade me take them to "the
poors" in the city. I did as they bade me, but I never got more
than half a block from the ferry with my burden. The street children
went wild over the "posies." They pleaded and fought to get near
me, and when I had no flowers left to give them sat in the gutter
and wept with grief. The sight of it went to my heart, and I wrote
this letter to the papers. It is dated in my scrap-book June 23,
1888:--
"The trains that carry a hundred thousand people to New York's
stores and offices from their homes in the country rush over fields,
these bright June mornings, glorious with daisies and clover blossoms.
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