GREENWOOD.
Come—let us go to Greenwood. Where’s Greenwood? Oh, I forgot you were not a little New Yorker. Greenwood is the great cemetery, or burial-place, of the New Yorkers, on Long Island, and a very lovely place it is, too. I like to see burial-places filled with flowers, and waving trees, and sparkling fountains; I do not like that death should be made a gloomy thing. I do not like that children should lie awake nights in shuddering fear of it. Were you away on a journey from your pleasant home, and were your dear father to send a messenger for you to come to his arms, would you say, No, the messenger is ugly, I do not like his looks, I would rather never see my father than to go with him? Would you not say to yourself, it is but a short journey, I can trust a dear father who has been so kind to me, and who loves me so well, I will put my hand in that of the messenger he has sent, and go with him; my father surely knows what is bestfor me, I have never had any thing but kindness at his hands. Now why can not you think thus of the messenger whom yourHeavenlyFather sends for you, even though his name is Death? Now, I do not like you to be afraid of death; I do not like you to pray to God because, if you do not, you are afraid he will do something dreadful to you. Oh, never pray that way, pray to him just as you would run up to your mother and throw your arms about her neck and love her, and thank her because she was so good and kind to you, not because you are afraid she will whip you. That is the way God wants you to pray to him. I am sure of it; and I am sure he loves you even better than your mother, and were she to die, would watch over you tenderly, for he takes special care of little orphans. No, do not think gloomily of the good loving God, or of His messenger, Death. Love him—how can you help it, when you see this beautiful earth He has made for you, and read all His sweet words that have comforted so many who are now happy with Him, beyond what you or I ever dreamed of.
But I must tell you about Greenwood, and how glad I was to see the pretty flowers blooming over the graves, and the long graceful willow branches dipping into the silver lakes, and then streaming out on the fresh windas if they were too full of happiness to keep still. I liked the little squirrels which ran across the path, with their tails curled saucily over their backs, and their black eyes twinkling sociably at us as we passed. I saw some graves there of little children; there were no tombstones or monuments over them; their fathers and mothers had brought them to this country from far away beyond the blue sea, and in that country it is the custom, when a little child dies, to place all his little toys on the grave, with a little glass case over them (not to keep them from thieves, oh, no, I can’t believe that any thief who ever stole, would touch a little dead child’s toys, nobody is bad enough for that); the glass case was to keep the rain from spoiling them, because often the father and mother, little brothers and sisters, would like to come and look at them, and think of their little Wilhelm, or little Meta. On one little boy’s grave was a little rusty cannon, which he used to play with, on another, only a pair of half-worn little shoes, with the strings tied together, very coarse homely little shoes, with the little toes turned up, just as the child’s foot had shaped them. I think the little boy was too poor to have playthings, and this was all his sorrowing mother had to tell us that her little boy lay dead beneath. The tears came into my eyes when I saw them,not for the little dead boy, oh, no, I was glad he had gone home to God, but for his lonely mother, for I too, have little half-worn shoes, but the tiny feet which used to wear them, I may never see or hear again in this world, but heaven is not so far off from me, since little “Mary” went there, and I think that is why God often takes our dear ones to keep for us, just as the shepherd when he takes the lamb in his arms, knows that the mother will want to follow.
Well, then I saw another little grave and under the glass-case upon it was a little doll, a tiny tea-set, and three locks of hair, golden, brown, and black, cut from the little heads that lay pillowed there. On another grave was a riding-whip and a little horse, with the reins lying idly about his neck; there are no little busy fingers now “to make-believe ride;” but the little boy who used to play with them knows more now than the most learned person on earth, and perhaps if you and I go to heaven, as I hope we shall (not because we are “afraid of hell” but because we want to be there with “our Father”), if we should go there, perhaps that very little boy will sing us the first sweet song of welcome. Who knows?
After wandering round Greenwood a long while, and seeing many, many beautiful things, I got into the carsto come back to New York; beside me I saw two little girls, one about five years and the other three. I could scarcely see their bright black eyes for the curls which hung over them. The younger was playing with a bunch of flowers, humming the while a simple little song, just as if she were all alone by herself, instead of amid a car full of people. Presently the little five year old girl looked up in my face; then she said with a very sweet little voice,
“Have you been to Greenwood?”
“Yes, dear.”
“There’samany people dead there, ain’t there?”
“A great many.”
“Are any of your peoples dead?”
“Yes, my dear,” said I.
“Is?” (and the little creature put her hand in my lap, as if that brought us nearer to each other), “Is? we just put little brother in Greenwood.”
“What ailed him?” said I.
“Sick,” answered the little girl, playing with my bracelet.
“Mother is dead too, mother is in Greenwood, we putherthere two weeks ago.”
“What ailed your mamma?”
“Sick,” answered the little one again.
“I hope you have a father,” said I, looking around the cars, for the little sisters seemed quite alone.
“Yes, out there (pointing out on the platform to a man with black crape on his hat, who was—shall I tell you? laughing and joking with some men outside), that’s father.”
“Yes, that’s father!” sang the little one, twisting her flowers, “that’s father.”
Poor little things.
“I loved mother,” said the elder girl, as she saw my eyes moisten; “mother loved me too. I used to go to store for mother; when she died she kissed me, and gave me her parasol;” and the poor child drooped her head over my hand with which she was playing.
“Do you know that you will see your mother again?” said I.
“No! shall I?”
“Yes; she will not come here; but God will take you to see her, if you are a good child.”
“I’m glad;” said she, softly.
“Don’t go away,” said she, as the cars stopped for me and my party to get out.
“Rock-a-baby—by-baby,” sang the happy little sister, still twisting the flowers.
I kissed them both. I looked into their father’s face,as I passed him on the platform. I read nothing there that made my heart happier when I thought of his little girls; but I looked up in the bright blue sky, and I read there that “not a sparrow falls to the ground without God’s knowledge,” and I knew that He who cares for the sparrows, would surely care for the motherless little sisters.