HINDRANCES AND HELPS 



day they tell me that a Violet or a tuft of 

 Lilies is dead; but on a spring morning, they 

 come, radiant with the story, — that the very 

 same Violet is blooming sweeter than ever, 

 upon some far-away cleft of the hill-side. So 

 you, my child, if the great Master lifts you 

 from us, shall bloom — as God is good — on 

 some richer, sunnier ground ! 



We talk thus: but if the change really 



come, it is more grievous than the blight of a 

 thousand flowers. She, who loved their search 

 among the thickets — will never search them. 

 She, whose glad eyes would have opened in 

 pleasant bewilderment upon some bold change 

 of shrubbery or of paths, will never open them 

 again. She — whose feet would have danced 

 along the new wood-path, carrying joy and 

 merriment into its shady depths, — will never 

 set foot upon these walks again. 



What matter how the brambles grow? — her 

 dress will not be torn : what matter the broken 

 paling by the water ? — she will never topple over 

 from the bank. The hatchet may be hung from 

 a lower nail now — the little hand that might 

 have stolen possession of it, is stiff — is fast. 



And when spring wakens all its echoes — of 

 the wren's song — of the blue-bird's warble, — 

 of the plaintive cry of the mistress cuckoo {she 



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