<h2 id="Chapter_VII"><em>Chapter VII</em><br/> <small> <em>Going Out of Doors</em> </small></h2>
<p class="no-indent-drop"><span>Now</span> I must tell you about some of our daily walks. Fessor used to say
to me: “Scraggles, you must go out of doors more, and watch the other
birds and learn to fly. I want you to fly. How can I turn you loose to
be a happy little bird in God’s great free out-of-doors if you don’t
learn to fly? Come along now and see how the other birds do it, and
then try for yourself.”</p>
<p>Then he would snap his fingers for me and I would come and jump into
his hand and he would carry me out of doors where the sparrows and
other birds seemed to be having so good a time. Of course, I watched
them and was very much interested in them. I used to fairly long to
fly as they did, and as they skimmed through the air I would stretch
out my legs and wings and try to imitate them with all my might and
main. Yet it was no use. My bad wing did not get strong, and it would
not hold me up. Then Fessor would put me down on the ground near where
a lot of sparrows would be pecking and chattering away on the road,
and I felt that he wanted me to make friends with them. So I hopped
toward them as fast as I could, and I chirped, and cheeped, and
twittered, but, strange to say, never a one of them paid the slightest
attention to me. They hardly ever looked at me, and never once said:
“How do you do?” As soon as I reached them they flew away and left me
to myself. Wasn’t that cruel? It seemed to me it was, but Fessor was
always there near by, and would comfort me so sweetly by telling me
not to mind; and as he snapped his fingers, I ran back to him, jumped
into his hand, and felt comforted as he made me snuggle up to his
whiskers, which I soon learned were almost as soft and warm as my
mother’s feathers used to be.</p>
<p>Sometimes he would go indoors and tell Mamma that “her efforts were
pitiable,” whatever that may mean, and then they would both be so
gentle and kind and sweet to me, and talk so soothingly that I felt:
“Well, even if I can’t fly, I have dear friends who love me very much
and try to make me happy!” and that made me feel much better.</p>
<p>And still, any one would have known that Fessor was once a boy, a
real, teasing, mean kind of a boy, for now and again he seemed to
delight in teasing me. I must confess I got used to it, and didn’t
mind it very much, but at first it distressed me quite a little, and I
felt hurt when he just stood there and laughed at me.</p>
<p>One day he had taken me out onto the lawn—as he often did—and I was
hopping about, when suddenly he took off his great big, broad-brimmed
sombrero and threw it right over me, so that it fell to the ground a
few feet beyond me. I was <em>so</em> scared! I saw that black thing skimming
over me and thought it was a dreadful something coming to take me and
kill me, perhaps; so, though I felt weak all over, I called up all my
strength and hopped and fluttered right up to Fessor and jumped for
safety upon his foot.</p>
<p>Then he seemed to be ashamed of himself, and said something to Mamma
about its being “too bad to tease a poor little Scraggles like that.”
So you see, I knew he had done it to tease me. But he picked me up and
loved me so sweetly and gave me two pinion nuts which he chewed up for
me, so that I couldn’t help forgiving him.</p>
<p>Oh! and I mustn’t forget to tell you about how he used to dig up slugs
and worms for me. While I would be hopping about on the lawn he would
go to a corner of the lawn and begin to dig. As soon as I saw him
digging I didn’t wait to be called, but just hopped over there as
fast as I could, and watched. Sometimes he saw the worm or slug or egg
sooner than I did, but generally I had seen it and pecked it up before
he knew it was there. It was great fun every day to go out and have a
feast like that. I believe he enjoyed it as much as I did, and of
course it was real good to me, for little birds do like slugs and
worms, provided they are not too big for them to swallow. When Fessor
would turn up a great, big, long worm and I would try to swallow it,
he would laugh at me so funnily. But it was no fun to me, I can assure
you, to try to swallow a worm longer than myself. And so I had to go
to work with my bill and cut him up into smaller pieces, and that
sometimes made me very tired.</p>
<p>Now and again Fessor would take me over to a neighbor’s whom he called
“Friar Tuck.”<SPAN id="FNanchor_2_2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</SPAN> He would say to me in his funny way: “Now, Miss
Scraggles, I am the bold and daring Robin Hood. You are a maiden who
has fallen into my hands, and you are going to marry me, forsooth.
Come along, and we will hie ourselves away to Friar Tuck and bid the
jolly priest wed us!” Then snap! would go his fingers. I would run
towards him, and he would pick me up, and off we would go.</p>
<div class="footnote">
<p><SPAN id="Footnote_2_2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></SPAN> Note by the Fessor: My neighbor’s name was Tuck, and I
meant no disrespect by calling him Friar Tuck.</p>
</div>
<p>I don’t think the Tuck family—there were three of them, just as there
were three in our house—cared very much for me, though they used to
say I was a queer little bird. I didn’t hop around there very much.
I generally stayed with Fessor. I felt safer in his hand than anywhere
else.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG class="border2" id="i075" src="images/i075.jpg" width-obs="365" height-obs="600" alt="" /> <p class="caption">“I used to roost on it a great deal.”</p>
</div>
<p>One day when Fessor and Edith and I were out on the lawn, Edith said:
“Why don’t you get a bough for Scraggles to roost on?” I don’t know
what Fessor replied, but that afternoon Edith brought a bough with
quite a number of branches on it, and put it down in the den for me. I
used to roost on it a great deal after that, though there were times
when I didn’t feel very well that I got more comfort out of a pair of
Fessor’s shoes. But that is another story.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 id="Chapter_VIII"><em>Chapter VIII</em><br/> <small> <em>On Fessor’s Bed</em> </small></h2>
<p class="no-indent-drop"><span class="no-indent-drop">As</span> a rule, Fessor was at work at his desk long, dark hours before I
was ready to get up in the morning. I would hear him come quietly into
the den, so as not to wake Mamma and Edith, and then the clock would
strike twice, or three times, and I soon learned that that meant it
was a long time before I had to get up. But some mornings he would be
quite late, and once or twice he went down to the office (as he called
it when he went away to be gone all day) and never saw me at all until
night. Well, I didn’t like that at all, so one morning when he was
not at the desk when I came from my hiding-place, I went out into the
hall in search of him. Not far from the den door I found another
doorway, and I went through it into the room. It turned out to be
Fessor’s bedroom. He was in bed and fast asleep. That is, I think he
must have been asleep by the noise he made, for he slept out loud
worse than a humming bee I had once heard. I gave a loud, quick chirp.
He didn’t answer, so I called several times, making my voice louder
and louder at each call; until at last, with a stretch and a yawn, he
threw his arm out of the bed and opened his hand for me to jump in.
When he lifted me up on the bed he wanted to know what I meant, such a
raggedy, scraggedy little wretch, by coming and waking him up. I
didn’t tell him, but I just climbed up over his chest onto his chin
and began to peck at his white teeth, and when he tried to catch me I
ran and hid in his neck behind his whiskers. Then he bent his head
over and held me so lovingly tight, that I was sorry when he let me
go. I pecked his neck and he squeezed me between his cheek and his
shoulder, and did it several times.</p>
<p>When I jumped onto his chin again I thought I would pinch his lip, so
I took tight hold. My, how he did jump! And then when I pinched again,
he tried to scare me all into little pieces. What do you think he did?
He opened his mouth and filled himself full of air, and then blew me
just as hard as he could. I was scared for a moment, but when I saw
his dancing, merry, sparkling eyes I knew it was all fun, and I went
for his lips again. But he dodged his head so that I couldn’t get at
them. He said I pinched too hard, but I don’t believe that, do you?
For how could such a tiny little bird hurt so big a man?</p>
<p>Then we had a new game. He stretched out on his back, raised up his
knees, and took me and perched me right on top of them. He said I was
on a high mountain with a valley behind, and a valley before, and a
canyon on each side of me. And then he made an earthquake come. He
moved his knees up and down quickly and made me jump. You know I
couldn’t fly, but I jumped real hard, and I came rolling and tumbling
down the mountain side into Paradise Valley, which was the name he
gave to the valley in front. The next time he did it I tumbled off
backwards, and that was the Valley of Despair, for he couldn’t reach
me, he said, and I had to crawl out myself. What fun it was!</p>
<p>One day when we were playing this game I rolled right off from his
knees, off the bed, onto the floor; and I went with such a bump! Then
he said I had fallen into the Grand Canyon, and he called out to the
Indians to come and catch me and bring me back to him. Of course it
was all fun, for he threw his arm out of the bed, snapped his fingers,
and gave me his hand, and I was soon nestling snug and warm against
his chin and neck. That was such a nice place to be! I used to love to
go and catch him in bed, for then I could peck his nose, and ears,
and lips, and the white hairs in his beard, and whenever I did that he
always snuggled me up close to him and called me his dear, darling
little Scraggles.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 id="Chapter_IX"><em>Chapter IX</em><br/> <small> <em>Going for a Walk</em> </small></h2>
<p class="no-indent-drop"><span class="no-indent-drop">From</span> all this you can see how dear friends we had already become. So
much so, that I was always very lonesome when Fessor had to go away;
and several times after he had left the den, and the door downstairs
had shut to, I would go out into the hall and call for him, and see if
I could find him anywhere. Mamma and Edith were down in the kitchen,
so they never heard me; but one day Fessor found out that I was in the
habit of looking for him, for he went to the bath-room at the end of
the great, long hall in order to refill my saucer with clean water. I
had been there once or twice all alone, so I followed him. I had to
hop and skip and flutter along pretty quickly, for he was such a big
man and had such long legs. He didn’t dream I was so close to him, and
when I gave a little chirp as I stood there by his feet, he jumped up
and pretty nearly trod on me. “What!” he exclaimed. “What are you
doing here? You little, darling rascal!” And then he stooped down and
gave me a hand to pick me up and love me.</p>
<p>Ever after that I followed him every chance I got, and he seemed to
like it. Even when we went out of doors he let me walk after him. I
call it walk, but you know it was not a walk exactly like men and
women walk. I had to hop and flutter my wings, and I really don’t
know just what word you would use to describe how I travelled along.
Fessor said I neither walked, ran, hopped, skipped, jumped, nor flew,
and yet my movement was a mixture of all of these. I guess he knows,
too; for I heard Uncle Herbert say he was a very learned man, and knew
a great deal about many things.</p>
<p>Oh! I haven’t told you yet about Uncle Herbert’s visit. I will tell
you that pretty soon.</p>
<p>People used to see us when we were out walking together, and some of
them laughed, and others smiled in a queer kind of way with tears in
their eyes. But nobody tried to hurt me, for Fessor was there, and he
was so big that I knew I was safe every moment when I was with him.
How I did enjoy those walks! We went out nearly every day, and he
picked out the places where the sun shone, for he said the warm
sunshine was good for birdies as well as for men and women.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 id="Chapter_X"><em>Chapter X</em><br/> <small> <em>Uncle Herbert’s Visit</em> </small></h2>
<p class="no-indent-drop"><span class="no-indent-drop">One</span> day Mamma came up-stairs to the den and said her brother Herbert
was coming. Fessor and Edith were both glad, and as Edith called him
Uncle Herbert, I always thought of him in the same way. We were all
quite excited when he came. Such huggings and kissings and shaking of
hands. I could see it from the top of the stairs, and hear what was
going on. By and by Edith said to Fessor that he must show Scraggles
to Uncle Herbert. So Fessor brought me down in his hand. I don’t think
Uncle Herbert cared much for me at first, for he said I was the
wretchedest-looking little bald-bellied bird he had ever seen in his
life. That made me feel quite bad.</p>
<p>But the next day when they were at dinner Edith lifted me onto the
table—a thing that was very seldom allowed, for Mamma didn’t think it
was proper for me to run around on the dining-table, either at meal or
any other time—and began to play with me. We had lots of fun, and
then she lifted me up and wanted to make me perch on the edge of a
drinking-glass partially full of water. She did it so quickly that I
didn’t have time to get firm hold, and the glass was slippery, too,
and what do you think happened? I fell right into that glass, and was
half scared to death when my feet touched the cold water. With a
quick “cheep” I made a desperate spring, and almost as soon as I was
in I was out again. How Edith and Uncle Herbert laughed! Then he said
I was a cute little bird.</p>
<p>Well, that night Uncle Herbert and Fessor and Edith and Mamma all went
into the room where the piano was, and what a time they had! They sang
all together while Fessor played, and then Uncle Herbert sat down and
sang some funny songs about darkies and coons and “The Year of
Jubilo.” It was too funny for anything. I didn’t know how to laugh as
Mamma did, but it did me lots of good to see her. She laughed and
laughed until she cried. And I danced and danced to see her so happy,
that I grew quite excited and didn’t want to go to bed at all that
night. But Fessor made me go. He took me and put me on the bough which
I used for my perch, and when I jumped off and began to cheep and call
he came in and put me back again; until at last I grew sleepy and
dropped off to sleep. But I was very tired next morning. I guess I had
laughed and danced too much, and stayed up too late the night before,
which is not good for people as well as little birds.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 id="Chapter_XI"><em>Chapter XI</em><br/> <small> <em>My Illness</em> </small></h2>
<p class="no-indent-drop"><span class="no-indent-drop">Soon</span> after Uncle Herbert’s visit I was taken quite ill. You see I
never was very strong, and every little thing, such as a change in the
weather, affected me. Yet when I think about it, it was almost worth
while to be sick to feel the tender love Fessor gave me at that time.
As soon as he found I couldn’t eat, he went and bought some stuff in a
bottle called “bird-food,” and placed it in a saucer on the floor for
me. But somehow I could not make up my mind to eat any of it until he
came and carried me to the saucer, and there, holding me in his
hand, he mixed up some of the food with water and fed it to me. He was
so anxious that I should eat that I couldn’t refuse him.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG class="border2" id="i093" src="images/i093.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="435" alt="" /> <p class="caption">“I couldn’t bear to be anywhere else than right in his hand.”</p>
</div>
<p>When he went to write at the desk I did so want to be with him! I
couldn’t bear to be anywhere else than right in his hand. Here is a
little piece I found on the desk one day which tells just how he used
to care for me:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“She is now asleep in my left hand, though it is early
afternoon. Crawling in between my fingers, she comfortably
arranged herself, perched on one of my bent fingers, (the others
covering her), and then, putting her head under her right wing,
she quietly dropped off to sleep. Many nights when I am in the
study at her bedtime, she has refused to perch on the branches
of the bough. She comes to my feet and pleads to be lifted up.
As I put down my hand she jumps into it, and as I lift her up
and place her in my left hand she nestles down into it as if it
were a nest, curves her head under her wing, and goes to sleep.
If my fingers are not comfortable to her, she picks at
them—sometimes very vigorously—until I put them as she
desires.</p>
<p>“The other evening I determined I would not let her go to sleep
in my hand, so I made her a cosy nest in the drawer immediately
under my right arm. I coaxed her into this by putting two of my
fingers into it, upon which she immediately squatted. But
something was lacking in the new roosting place or nest. Two
fingers were not enough, and for nearly half an hour my daughter
and I watched her as she pecked at my fingers and thumb above,
seeking to pull them down under her so that she would have a
‘full hand’ to nest on. At length she decided to take the two
fingers, so long as with finger and thumb I rubbed her head.
Soon her little head swung under her wing, and as soon as she
was asleep I withdrew the two under fingers. But this awakened
her, and I had to stroke her more before she settled down again.
Then, as I wrapped the cloth around and over her, she awakened
enough to peep out and learn from me that she was all right,
when we left her for the night. She evidently remained contented
until morning.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I also found another little scrap on Fessor’s desk which tells better
than I can about how I acted when I was ill. Here it is:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“During the last week she has shown a desire for closeness to
me, for petting, handling, caressing, that I never saw in
anything alive before. It is pathetic in the extreme. Every
moment almost she desires to be near me. There is no seeking
concealment, or privacy, or darkness. If I will not take her up
in my hand, she nestles on my foot, and for several days I have
kept my shoes off to give her the pleasure of feeling the warmth
of my foot when I could not spare the time to ‘fuss’ with her
on the desk. If I am away, I invariably find her on my return,
if she is not eating, roosting on the edge of a pair of extra
shoes of mine that always stand in the study.</p>
<p>“When she nestles beside my hand and folds her head under her
wing, she loves to have me take the upper part of her head
between my finger and thumb and gently rub and caress it, and
she makes no effort to remove it, but goes on apparently
sleeping as before.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I wanted to hear his voice and feel the warmth of his hands and those
delicious little hugs he gave me when he squeezed me just enough to
tell me how much he loved me. And he seemed to understand it all so
well,—just how sick a little bird felt. When he took me out of doors
he kept me from the cold with his large, loving hands, and yet let the
sun shine on me. Twice he made me walk after him, to give me a little
healthful exercise; but he would not let me go too far lest I should
get too tired.</p>
<p>But I did not get well; and I did <em>so</em> want to be well and strong. I
was as happy with my human friends as I could be, and I wanted to live
with them a long time. When I heard them say I was a very sick bird it
used to put a great fear in my heart that I was going to die, and then
I would snuggle up close to Fessor’s hand that he might know I wanted
to live.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Here Scraggles’ story as written by herself comes to an end. The
Fessor now tells the pathetic remainder of the interesting tale.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 id="Chapter_XII"><em>Chapter XII</em><br/> <small> <em>Scraggles’ Last Day</em> </small></h2>
<p class="no-indent-drop"><span class="no-indent-drop">It</span> was Thursday, August 3, 1905. We (that is, Scraggles and I) had had
a good day together. We went out and I dug worms for her, and she
seemed happy and improving in health and appearance. During the day
she followed me out to the bath-room and all around several times, and
when I went to lie down and read she came and insisted upon my holding
her, or allowing her to sit on my hand. When I moved to turn the page
she jumped upon my sleeve and hopped up to my shoulder and neck, where
she stayed for half an hour or more. This was a new trick, learned
only a few days before, and several times she hopped up from my desk,
when I put her off the paper as I wrote, and perched quite contentedly
on my shoulder or squatted on the back of my neck.</p>
<p>Several times during the day she had begged to be taken up and had
fussed around my pencils, and once or twice had fought my pen as I
wrote. Placing her on my lap, she snuggled down there contentedly
until some movement disturbed her. Once, and the only time I knew her
to do it, she tried to fly up from my lap to the desk. When she failed
she looked up with such a queer expression that I could not help
putting down my hand for her, into which she immediately hopped.</p>
<p>We had had a good two hours together after lunch, when I put her
down, and soon she was hopping about the room. After feeding herself
she came and perched in her usual place on my foot, but I must have
forgotten her for a moment. My brain was much occupied with an
important chapter of my book, and jumping up hastily I stepped to the
book-case to the left of my desk to consult some volume, and almost as
soon as I did so looked around to see where Scraggles was. I looked
towards her sand bath and the food saucers, then to her little tree,
but she was not to be seen. Then, as I often did, I tilted back my
chair to see if she was at my feet, and to my intense distress I saw
her there dead, on the bear skin I used as a rug.</p>
<p>There are some griefs that seem puerile. I suppose mine will over
this poor, scraggedy, helpless little bird, yet I felt at that moment
as I have felt often since, that there are many men I could far better
spare than her,—many men with whom two months’ daily association
would teach me less than did this little, raggedy, ailing
song-sparrow. Her cheerfulness, her courage, her dauntlessness, her
self-reliance, her perfect trust and confidence, her evident
affection, were all lessons to remain in memory. After she had once
given her trust, it never failed. I could handle my books, moving them
to and fro over her, placing them anywhere near her, and there was not
the slightest evidence of fear; and if anything did alarm her and she
could get into my hand and feel its firmness around her, all tremors
ceased. With her tiny head protruding from the clenched hand, her
bright eyes looking now this way, now that, she watched intently, but
without fear, confident in the protecting power of her big friend. And
I felt the trust, the confidence reposed in me, the affection, and it
drew from me a response totally at variance with the size of the tiny
creature.</p>
<p>We buried her where she and I had gone daily, I to dig, she to eat
whatever I found that she liked. My daughter lined the little grave
appropriately with the beautiful white blossoms known as
bird-cages,—lace-like, delicate, and exquisite,—and as we crumbled
the earth over her tiny feathered little body, need I be ashamed to
confess that tears fell, even as they do now as I write?</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 id="Chapter_XIII"><em>Chapter XIII</em><br/> <small> <em>How the Story of Scraggles came to be Written</em> </small></h2>
<p class="no-indent-drop"><span class="no-indent-drop">The</span> book I was writing when Scraggles came to me was “In and Out of
the Old Missions of California.” These interesting buildings were
founded by Saint Francis of Assisi, whose love for the birds and lower
animals has already become almost a proverb. It was just as I was
finishing one of the last chapters of the book that Scraggles’ life
went out. Was it not singular that, while dealing with a subject so
intimately associated with this great lover of birds, one of these
tiny, helpless, feathered sisters should claim my protecting love?
There are those who will see in this more than the mere outward
facts,—and I shall not be concerned or disturbed if they do.</p>
<p>The writing of the book was so bound up with the short life of
Scraggles that, like an inspiration, I felt I must dedicate it to her.
In two minutes after the thought came into my mind I had penned the
following dedication, which was published and now appears in my book
exactly as I wrote it:</p>
<blockquote>
<p class="centered-block">TO SCRAGGLES</p>
<p class="centered-block">MY PET SPARROW AND COMPANION</p>
<p>Saint Francis, the founder of the Franciscan order, without
whom there would probably have been no missions in California,
regarded the birds as his “little brothers and sisters.” Just
as I began the actual writing of this book I picked up in the
streets a tiny song sparrow, wounded, unable to fly, and that
undoubtedly had been thrust out of its nest. In a short time we
became close friends and inseparable companions. Hour after
hour she sat on my foot, or, better still, perched, with head
under her wing, on my left hand, while I wrote with the other.
Nothing I did, such as the movement of books, turning of
leaves, etc., made her afraid. When I left the room she hopped
and fluttered along after me. She died just as the book was
receiving its finishing pages. On account of her ragged and
unkempt appearance I called her Scraggles; and to her, a tiny
morsel of animation, but who had a keen appreciation and
reciprocation of a large affection, I dedicate this book.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>When I read this to some of my friends they were moved to tears and
wanted to know more about Scraggles. As I told the story, others
desired to hear it. Then in a lecture on “The Radiant Life” I told it
again, and thousands were touched to tears by the simple narrative of
the sweet little bird’s beautiful and trustful life.</p>
<p>Fortunately, my familiarity with the camera had made me desire to make
some photographs of Scraggles some three weeks before her death. My
daughter and I made several, and then a friend came and made two or
three others, so that now we feel really blessed in possessing these
counterfeit presentments of the little creature.</p>
<p>When our friends saw these photographs they desired copies of them;
and when, after the publication of “In and Out of the Old Missions,”
strangers began to write both to my publishers and myself for
“further particulars about Scraggles,” I felt that I ought to give to
others some of the joy and delight and benefit I and mine had in our
intercourse with her.</p>
<hr class="tb" />
<p>Dear little Scraggles! I little thought when I first saw you
struggling to get away from me, as if afraid I might devour you, that
we should so soon become such inseparable friends. It was a sudden
impulse that led me to pick you up and take you home, and though the
loving hearts there welcomed you, they realized better than I did the
trouble you would be. But somehow that did not deter us from making
you one of us, and you soon recognized the relationship. Our
association was short, as men reckon time, but time really has very
little to do with life.</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse00">“We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;</div>
<div class="verse00">In feelings, not in figures on a dial.</div>
<div class="verse00">We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives,</div>
<div class="verse00">Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.”</div>
</div></div>
<p>So in the short three months you were with me we lived your lifetime
together; and though my life is stretching out into further time, and
your body is buried, you, dear little Scraggles, still live on with
me. I don’t know, and I care less, what the psychologists say about
birds having souls, and I am equally indifferent as to what the
theologians say of there being a heaven for birds, or birds entering
the heaven of human beings. This I do know, that in my own soul, far
more real than the demonstrable propositions of life, such as that two
and two make four, is the certain assurance that my soul and
Scraggles’ will meet when my body and soul are severed.</p>
<p>So sleep, content and serene, dear little Scraggles, in your tiny and
flower-embowered resting-place. You know full well in your tiny, but
love-filled heart that just so soon as I have met all the human loved
ones in the soul-life, I shall seek for you, and seek until I find,
for I shall want you even in heaven. My heaven will be incomplete
without you. I believe absolutely with Browning, that</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse00">“There shall be no lost good,</div>
<div class="verse00">What was, shall live as before!”</div>
</div></div>
<p>So in the life of the future, with understanding and love made sweeter
by clearer knowledge, we shall love on; for of all great things that
abide forever “the greatest is love.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i113.jpg" width-obs="250" height-obs="218" alt="" /></div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
1 of 2
2 of 2
Previous
Next
Update Required
To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.