PART SECOND.
CHAPTER XV.
INTRODUCTORY.—SPIRIT MAY.
This, the second part of our volume, will contain the writings of a beautiful young spirit whose literary labors through her medium, Miss M. T. Shelhamer, have been adapted to the taste of children and young people; though ample testimony has been received from a number of persons of mature age that these simply-worded and easily-understood poems and narratives of spirit children, and of child-life in the spheres, are replete with interest, instruction, and enjoyment for “children of a larger growth” than those for whom they were originally designed.
Mary G. Kinsey is a younger sister of Kate A. Kinsey—spirit Violet—whose descriptions of life and labor in the spirit world have been given on the preceding pages. She passed to spirit life June 27, 1862, at the tender age of four months and one day, and consequently has gained her knowledge and experience of life in the spirit world. In the early summer of 1879, spirit Violet informed her medium that her sister Mary was a teacher of little children in the Summer-land; that she dearly loved the young and lovely buds of humanity, and found her chief enjoyment in ministering to their needs, and in catering to their pleasure; and announced her, Mary’s, intention of opening a children’s department in the columns of the Voice of Angels, through which she would talk to the children of earth,—singing them simple rhymes, or relating incidents and anecdotes of the children of the spirit world.
Shortly after this, Mary appeared to the medium for the purpose of putting this plan into execution, inditing through the organism of Miss Shelhamer her first contribution to a Children’s Department for the Voice under the signature of “Spirit May,” which nom de plume she has ever since employed; and from that time to the present, this sweet young spirit has assiduously labored to present to mortal children something fresh and bright from the tablets of her mind—either in poetry or prose—that would be at once interesting and instructive. At first, spirit May’s productions were given in the form of verse for the ready comprehension of her young readers; but later, she successfully attempted the description of how children live in the Summer-land, with accounts of their labors, studies, and recreations.
As this work is published for the purpose of informing mortals concerning real life in the spirit world, that portion of it which spirit May has contributed will consist principally of her recitals of the work, doings, and surroundings of spirit children. The succeeding four chapters of this work treat upon these themes exclusively. Below we give a little brochure written by spirit May, entitled, “The Council of the Flowers,” followed by a few selections from her poetic contributions to the Voice of Angels, with which it is thought best to finish this chapter.
THE COUNCIL OF THE FLOWERS.
The soft, glistening raindrops of April fell over the tired earth, that had been held by wintry cold and storm for many long months. The bright golden sunbeams and the sweet, fragrant breezes of May swept over the fields and woods and lanes, calling their flowers forth to enjoy the beautiful springtime of gladness and mirth.
Myriads of blossoms, white and yellow, red and purple and blue, sprang up from their nests of dainty green grasses and leaves, to swing in the passing breeze and shake the perfume from their petals with which to scent the balmy air. Roses and lilies, violets and daisies, pinks and cowslips, and a thousand other flowers made the hedges and gardens and meadows and forests appear gay and beautiful and very sweet.
June came and went, followed by July and August, with their burning splendor of sunlight and heat. Many of the flowers bloomed in sweetness for a little while, and then dropped their leaves and died to earthly things, and passed away to the heaven where flowers bloom forever. Others, fragrant and fresh and fair, came to take their places, and so the whole world was sweet until the autumn came.
Down, down, dropped the leaves from the trees, whirling along through the air, no longer wearing their summer hue of green, but bearing the marks of age in the dull, brown appearance which had come to them.
The autumn time had come, and the oldest flowers began to shake their heads and whisper to each other that it was time for them to be gone, and that the winter must not find them here below. A great wind from the east, that had been listening to these remarks, caught up the words, and rushing over hill and dale, and wood and field, shrieked them into the ears of all the flowers that lingered there, causing them to draw their petals together and shiver in alarm.
Then the wise old flowers said: “Let us call a council, and discuss the propriety of leaving earth before the snow-king comes.”
And so they gathered together all who could come, and concluded that they had lived quite long enough in this world, and it was time for them to take their flight to the great Paradise of flowers, where in one great garden they should live and bloom, and enjoy the sunlight and the dew forever.
And then a great red rose, the last of its kind, shook its fragrant petals and sweetly said: “Oh, kind west wind, we have decided to leave this world for our beautiful home above. Please to carry this message to our friends and relations all over the land. Wherever you find a flower, no matter how humble it may be, or what its color, whisper into its ear these words: Be ready when the west wind comes again to take your flight from earth; all your friends and kindred will join you in your journey to the Summer-land; their mission is ended here below; their new life will be taken up in company with their sweet friends of spring and summer, who have passed on before them. There is joyful reunion for all the flowers. Here they shall bloom no more. When the winter flies, new flowers and other blooms will shed their perfume here, but you and your friends will blossom in the eternal world, where no wintry cold nor frost will ever come.”
And the genial west wind bore the message of the grand old rose far and wide, and whispered it to every flower, and the flowers bowed in silence while he spake; but when he had passed along, they shook off their useless petals and prepared for their journey as they sweetly sang: “We are going home, we are going home; good-bye, old world, good-bye.”
And when the west wind came again, he found them ready, and he gathered them all up in his arms and bore them away to the happy Summer-land.
The north wind came with a biting blast, but he found no trembling leaf or shrinking flower; they had all departed with their friend, the west wind, to remain forever in that land of sunlight, where the south wind sings to them of the peace and beauty of their heavenly home.
FOR THE LITTLE ONES.
WHO CAN TELL?
WORK.
TO MY SISTER GENEVIEVE.
GRANDMA’S PET.
TWO BIRDIES.
EVENING.
THE AWAKENING OF THE FLOWERS.
BABY NELLIE.
A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
SNOW DROPS.
AN EVENING SONG.
CHILDREN.
SNOW FLAKES.
CHAPTER XVI.
A STORY FOR THE CHILDREN.
In the outskirts of a large city, a little way out in the cool and pleasant country, there stands a little one-story house, which was once painted a light yellow, but which time and storm have turned to a dull, brown color. A little plot of ground attached, shaded by one noble oak tree, seemed turned into a perfect fairy bower of red and gold and green and purple, when summer suns shone down upon its beds of blooming four-o’clocks, correopsis, and larkspurs, in their setting of dainty foliage. All day long, the birds warbled or twittered to each other in the tree-top, where a nest of young robins was safely hidden from the prying eyes of too curious school-boys. Such stores of wonderful seeds, buds, and flowers did these birds know of at a no-distant place; such cherries and berries, which they could enjoy to their hearts’ content, after carefully providing for their half-famished young!
But of all the delightful spots these joyful birds had visited, not one seemed so suitable for their home as the plumy tops of this old oak tree, which cast its genial shade over the little old brown house, and here a nest was built,—five little, spotted eggs were carefully covered up by the mother-bird, which by-and-bye burst open and disclosed five little hungry bills, wide apart, gasping for food.
What a happy summer was this! Father Robin bustling about, looking very important, bringing a dainty worm or toothsome berry to feed his children upon, or perching upon the topmost bough of the tree, and filling the air with the music of his joyful songs; while the dainty, careful mother, prudent Mrs. Jenny, anxiously watched her little ones, lest some harm should come to them, or talked to them in her quaint bird-fashion, with now and then a little chirp of encouragement, when one would attempt to try its wings for a tiny flight amid the leaves.
But I have something to tell you about the inmates of the little old brown house, which contained two tiny rooms, a kitchen and a bed-room. The floors of these rooms were always white and shining; pretty pink curtains hung at the windows, a few chairs, a table and a little stove were in the outer room; while the inner apartment contained a neat, white bed, a stand, and one chair.
But two persons lived in this little home,—a pale, delicate woman, who was stitching her life away by constant sewing (for she made cheap clothing for a firm in the big city),—and a little girl about six years old. This little girl had bright blue eyes, and brown, curling hair; her name was Fannie, and she lived here alone with her dear mamma. Fannie’s papa had been in the spirit world for three years, and her mamma was obliged to do the sewing in order to earn bread and shelter for herself and little one.
Little Fannie used to help her dear mamma by threading needles, sewing tags on the work,—tags are tickets with the number of the garment written on them,—and picking up the litter on the floor.
Fannie Davis was a very happy little girl; she had but few toys, and these were old, nearly worn-out playthings, which had seen better days; but she loved to play in the little garden, and watch the flowers, pulling out old weeds and picking the flower-seeds as they ripened. She would listen to the birds for hours, and talk to them in her childish way. They were her companions, for she had no playmates, and it was a happy summer for this little girl when the robins built their nest in the old tree.
But, alas, a terrible storm of wind and rain came one night, and brought disaster to the birdies’ home. The nest became detached from its fastenings and fell, catching upon a lower branch of the tree. The old birds were not harmed, but two of their young ones were killed, and another was lying on the ground with a broken wing. In this condition little Fannie found them in the morning, when the storm had disappeared and the sun was shining bright. Poor little thing, how she cried as she buried the two tiny birds in the garden, and placed a handful of her choicest flowers upon their grave. The little wounded bird she carried into the house, her mother tied up its broken wing with a cotton string, and fed it with bread-crumbs. Fannie made a little, soft nest for the bird from some pieces of old linen, and kept it until it was strong and well, when she let it go again out into the bright world to find its parents, its two brother birdies, and its nest repaired and straightened in the old tree.
But something really wonderful—so it appeared to the little girl—happened. While the poor little bird had remained a wounded prisoner under Fannie’s care, it had become very tame and would eat its food from her hand, and now that it had grown strong and well, the little girl felt sad at losing her friend; for she felt that she could no longer keep him and pet and feed him as she once did.
But I think little birds are grateful creatures; they do not forget a kindness. In the warm summer weather Mrs. Davis always left the window open at night, that fresh air might enter her dwelling; and you may judge of Fannie’s delight to find her little bird entering the house every morning. He would perch upon her shoulder, eat seeds or crumbs from her mouth and hand, and chirp and warble his little songs to her in an ecstasy of glee. Every morning regularly did this occur; the bird would enter the open window, remain about half an hour to delight his benefactress, and then soar away to his home on the tree-top, or to other pleasant places in the neighborhood.
One bright, pleasant day in August, as little Fannie sat playing with her flowers and pebbles in the garden, she espied the face of a little boy, framed in by a mass of sunny-brown hair, and half covered—as if from shyness—with a white straw hat, bound with a bright blue ribbon, upon the other side of the fence. The stranger was peeping at her with sparkling, roguish brown eyes, and seemed half inclined to speak.
Springing from the ground, Fannie opened the gate and called: “Would you like to come in here and see my flowers, little boy?”
The stranger smiled and advanced, and in a few minutes was chatting with our little girl as though he had always known her. He told her his name was Franklin Hedge, that he lived in a beautiful, large, white house ever so far away,—the “ever so far” was about two miles farther into the country,—that he had a dear mamma, and a splendid papa, with big, black whiskers; that he had no brothers and sisters, but he guessed God was going to bring him a little sister soon, cause he had asked for one so many times; that he had horses and carriages and playthings, “and the biggest garden, with all kinds of flowers growing in it.” He was out riding with his teacher today, and his teacher had let him play outside while she went into a house to see a sick friend; it was only a little ways off, and he had strayed this way while waiting for her.
To all this Fannie listened with breathless delight; she had never seen such wonderful things as this little boy said he owned; he looked so cool and pretty in his spotless white suit, and seemed so kind, so different from the boys she had seen throwing stones, that he seemed like an angel from another world.
For an hour these two children chatted and played in the garden; Fannie showing Frankie how to make necklaces of flowers and stems, and Frankie initiating Fannie into some of the mysteries of boyish games. Once, Mrs. Davis called to know who Fannie was playing with, but the little girl satisfied her mother about that, and returned to her new friend, bringing a glass of fresh milk which he drank with much enjoyment.
But all pleasant things seem to have an end on earth, and pretty soon these friends were called upon to part. A carriage, drawn by a sleek white horse, and driven by a lady, appeared coming up the road. Frankie recognized his teacher, who was looking anxiously up and down the road, and kissing Fannie Davis good-bye, ran out to meet her; he was lifted into the carriage, and in a few moments whirled from sight.
For many long weeks after this day, Fannie talked constantly of her little friend Frankie, and wondered when he would come to see her again; but the weeks deepened into months, the flowers drooped their heads and withered away, leaving only dry, brown seeds, which the little girl carefully gathered and laid away; the leaves drifted from the old oak tree, leaving the branches brown and bare; the robin’s nest was deserted, for all the birds had flown away to a sunnier, warmer clime, to spend the winter; and still Frankie did not come. Fannie could not play out in the garden now, except for a little while on the sunniest days; she missed the morning greeting of her little pet robin sadly, but she liked to think of him as happy in some warmer place, and to look forward to the coming spring, when he would return to the old tree.
Mrs. Davis had been growing paler and thinner all summer; a bad cough frequently racked her frame, and distressing pains in the side gave her great uneasiness. It was now a difficult task to carry her work to and fro to the shop in the city; yet she felt it must be done, and there was no one to do it but herself. Upon the scanty proceeds of her toil depended the existence of herself and little one. For herself she did not mind so much; but for her little girl she was all anxiety.
A kind-hearted doctor, who lived in the vicinity of the little old brown house, called in occasionally, leaving some dark mixture in a bottle, which the patient woman took with the hope of gaining strength; but the days and weeks flew by, bringing but little relief.
Winter was almost at hand; Mrs. Davis had been unable to provide for its approach, and she knew not what to do. At last she had been forced to give up her work. She had but a little wood, flour, and meal in the house; the snow came drifting down, at first very slowly, but soon increased in rapidity, until at last the ground was covered with a carpet so pure and spotless and clear that even angel feet might tread upon it; yet bitterly cold and uncomfortable to the poor, bare, suffering feet of those mortals who are without clothing and fire.
Down, down came the feathery snow; darkness fell upon the silent house; little Fannie crept to her mother’s side beneath the bed-covering, and was clasped in her tender arms. Sweet sleep visited the child; but none came to bless the weary eyes of the dying mother; for now the poor woman knew the truth,—her hours on earth were numbered. Oh, how she prayed for the good doctor to come and visit her; but he was far away by the side of another sick and suffering one, and knew not of her desire. Only one thought possessed the mind of the sleepless woman,—the future welfare of her little girl. If she could be satisfied of this, she would be content to pass to the spirit world, where she knew her dear husband was waiting to welcome her.
The storm passed with the night; the morning sun shone upon the snow-covered home of our friends, and streamed in upon a little group gathered around the bed of Mrs. Davis: little Fannie weeping pitifully, and clinging to the cold, lifeless hand of that form that had once contained the spirit of her mother; the good, kind doctor, whom I have spoken of, and a beautiful lady robed in mourning garments, with a face as pale as the face of the dead.
Mrs. Davis had passed away peacefully, for the doctor had assured her that her little one should be taken care of. He was now preparing to leave, to send some one to look after the house, and prepare for the funeral service of the departed.
You will remember the little boy, Frankie Hedge, who spent a pleasant hour in the garden of the little brown house, one sunny summer day, in company with little Fannie. Well, Frankie had not forgotten his little playmate of an hour; many times would he speak of her to his mamma and papa, and they had promised him that when he returned from the sea-side, where he was going with them for a few weeks, he should again see the little girl he had taken such a liking to.
But, alas, Frankie Hedge, who went to the sea-side a strong and happy boy of eight years, returned at the end of six weeks a pale and helpless invalid. Frequent bathing in the ocean spray, and remaining in the water too long at a time, weakened his constitution to such a degree that when a chill seized him one cloudy morning, while splashing about with his companions in the water, it was with the utmost difficulty he was brought to land in a senseless condition. From that time he weakened and pined away; all that human love or physician’s skill could do was done, but without avail; and now, when the December winds howled about the splendid residence of his father, he lay panting and moaning, his face as white as the snowy pillows upon which it rested, and his eyes grown large and sorrowful, seeking rest and strength from the gentle face of his mother, who bent above him.
Often, in his hours of illness, had he spoken to his parents of little Fannie Davis, telling of the many fine times he meant to have with her when he got well; but now he knew he should never get stronger in this world, and so it was that on this cold December evening, when the snow was flying thick and fast without, and the gentle, subdued light of the sick chamber fell upon the costly furniture, the rosy curtains, the silver ornaments of the mantel, lighting them up with a mellow glow, and shining upon the pallid faces of the anxious parents, Frankie entreated his mother to go for Fannie Davis, and bring her to him.
Kind Dr. May, who was in attendance, said he knew the little girl and her poor, sick mamma, and he would go for her himself. But this would not do; nothing would pacify the sick child until his mother promised that in the morning she would go in the sleigh with the good doctor, find Fannie, and bring her to Frankie’s side.
“Oh, I am so glad, mamma,” said the child; “there is a nice, tall man here, and he is so glad too. I saw him that day in the garden where Fannie lives; he told me he was Fannie’s father. He says pretty soon Fannie will have no mamma on earth. Do bring her here, mamma, and perhaps when she has no mamma, and you have no little boy, she will be your little girl, and stay with you forever; ’cause I will be will be with the angels; but I will come to see you sometimes.”
After this the child fell asleep, and in the morning, when the sun was shining on the freshly-fallen snow, Mrs. Hedge was taken in the doctor’s sleigh to the home of Fannie Davis; and that is how they found the dying woman and the weeping child.
Kind, gentle Mrs. Hedge found it impossible to persuade little Fannie to leave her mother’s side; so after the spirit of the suffering woman had passed peacefully away, she was obliged to return to her home, leaving the little girl in charge of a good woman whom the doctor had found to remain with and care for her, until after the funeral of the body of Mrs. Davis; for it is only the body, dear children, that has to be laid away from sight; the real person lives, and is not cold and senseless; but if he or she has been good, happiness is theirs, and they find a beautiful, sweet home in company with their dear friends. Mrs. Davis had met her dear husband and parents, and found a bright home awaiting her, but she had not forsaken nor forgotten her little girl, who was left on the earth seemingly alone.
Frankie Hedge expressed no feeling of disappointment when his mother returned without Fannie. “I knew she wouldn’t come,” said he to her as she entered the room, after removing her rich cloak and furs. “I told papa she wouldn’t come. I saw her papa again a few moments ago, and there was a lady with him with such a sweet, pretty face. It made me think of you, mamma, it looked so kind and good, and then I knew Fannie’s mamma was dead and that was her.” Mrs. Hedge kissed her little boy, and said she thought Fannie would come by-and-bye, after the funeral of her mother’s body. “Oh, yes, she will come, mamma; her papa told me so, and I can wait, because I’m not going to leave you for some time yet. I saw dear grandma last night, and she kissed me and said: ‘Not till the March winds blow, my lamb, will we be ready to take you to our spirit home.’”
The eyes of the listening parents filled with tears; they knew their darling was traveling fast to the Summer-land, yet they did not grieve as some people grieve when their loved ones pass away; for they knew he could come back to them. They did not think he was dreaming, as the doctor did, when he talked of seeing Fannie’s papa and his own grandma, because they knew the angels are ever around striving to make their presence known to their friends.
In three days Fannie Davis was brought to the home of Frankie Hedge. Poor little thing! how her eyes lighted up at the sight of the little boy waiting anxiously to receive her. What an affectionate meeting was this! You would have thought it a meeting between a long-lost brother and sister; but the angels knew and understood. Both children had changed since that long past summer day when they met and parted. For while Frankie had grown pale and wan from pain and weakness, Fannie had lost her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes from long confinement and grief from the illness and death of her mother.
Nothing would satisfy Frankie Hedge now but a promise that Fannie should stay with him while he remained in the body, and this desire was granted.
Sorrow of her own had filled the heart of Mrs. Hedge with pity and sympathy, which soon grew into love for the little orphan; and Mr. Hedge, who declared Fannie looked very much like a little sister of his who passed away many years ago, took her into his heart at once.
A little room, opening off the hall where Frankie’s chamber was situated, was fitted up for little Fannie. A beautiful carpet of blue ground, with white lilies strewn upon it, covered the floor; a tiny bed of spotless linen and lace, pretty furniture of blue and white, a few pretty pictures upon the pink-tinted walls, and blue and white curtains at the window, completed the furnishing of the room. This apartment was a continued charm to our little girl. Never in her life had she beheld anything so beautiful, and she would sometimes hold her breath and pinch her arm, to see if she was not dreaming.
Mrs. Hedge had undertaken also to clothe the child, not in somber garments of black, but in dainty dresses of creamy white cashmere, which filled her spirit with delight, and made her wish for her mamma to come back and see her.
The two children were constant companions now during the day, save when Fannie was absent at her meals, or taken out for an airing by Frankie’s governess. Dr. May declared Frankie very much improved since Fannie came, and Mr. and Mrs. Hedge began to hope that health and strength would soon return to him.
What famous times the children had together! Frankie possessed numerous toys and picture-books, which were a source of never-failing delight to the little girl; besides, he would tell her of the places where he had been, and things he had seen, until her little eyes would grow round with wonder and pleasure. But best of all would she love to listen to him, as he told of the visits of her mamma and papa, and his own grandmamma to his bedside, and what they said to him; and she would wish, oh, so much, that she could see and hear them too, and it made her very happy to learn that her mamma and papa were happy in a sweet home, and they came back every day to Frankie, to send their love to their little girl.
So time sped rapidly away, and it was soon the first of February. The clear, white frost covered the ground, which shone in the beautiful sunlight of morning, or the glittering moonlight of evening, like countless sparks of brilliant light. All was fair, calm, and serene. Within doors it was the same; not a breath of discord, not a ripple of inharmony came to disturb the quiet peace of that little household.
A beautiful cabinet-organ stood in the recess of Frankie’s room, and sometimes, when the twilight fell, the little boy would ask his mamma not to have the gas lighted, but to play on the organ; and as the quiet shadows of early evening fell, the good lady would play softly and sweetly to the listening ears of the delighted children. At this hour the presence of the angels became visible to Frankie, and he would talk with them, as though they were in the body.
One evening, about the middle of the month, Mrs. Hedge sat in a large easy-chair, holding her little boy in her lap; he had been very restless and uneasy all day, and to soothe him into quiet his mother had taken him in her arms. Little Fannie sat a short distance from them, her soft, blue eyes fixed in a dreamy gaze. Mr. Hedge had just come in, and stood looking sadly down upon his suffering child.
Suddenly, Fannie arose, passed to the organ, seated herself upon the stool, and began running her fingers over the keys, producing a soft, sweet melody. Presently she began to sing a beautiful song, still playing an accompaniment to the words.
Frankie’s parents were astonished beyond measure, even while delighted at this wonderful performance of the little girl, who had never played a note upon any musical instrument in her life; but the little boy himself viewed the scene with calmness and pleasure. Afterward, he told them all that he had seen a beautiful lady touch Fannie by the hand, lead her to the organ, and guide her fingers over the keys.
The song which Fannie sang Mrs. Hedge recognized as a favorite air of a very dear sister of hers, who had long since passed to the spirit world, and by the description her little boy gave of the lady he saw at Fannie’s side, she was convinced that it was really her sister, come back to sing to her once again.
Every evening after this would the sweet spirit come, take control of the little girl, and sing and play to her delighted listeners; Frankie never failing to see and speak to her, as well as other spirits present, and to convey to his parents the messages of love and consolation they would bring. It seemed as though heaven had indeed come down to that sick chamber, and that angels dwelt within the home.
These were sad but happy days for Mr. and Mrs. Hedge. They now knew that nothing—not even their great love—could keep their little boy in the body; his strength was failing fast, but his spirit powers were gaining so rapidly that he could see the angels at any time. Many a sacred hour did the parents spend in communion with their spirit friends through the powers of these two children brought so strangely together; and even while they sorrowed to part with their darling, they rejoiced to know that he would be happy in the spirit world, where they would some day join him, and that while they remained on earth he would return to comfort and bless them.
Frankie himself was perfectly calm and happy in all but one thing; he was troubled and perplexed about his little friend Fannie; it was strange how these children had become attached to each other. Fannie, who had always been an active little girl, would sit upon the side of the bed for hours at a time, holding Frankie’s hand, and talk or sing to him until he fell asleep, or it was time for her to leave him for her food or walk.
As yet, the little boy had not mentioned his trouble to anyone: but at length, as the end drew near, he resolved to do so. It was evening, the curtains were drawn, and the mellow light shone through the gas-globes. The children had kissed each other “good night,” and Fannie had retired to her rest. Mr. and Mrs. Hedge were sitting with their sick boy; the nurse and physician had retired, and all was quiet throughout the house.
“Mamma and papa,” said the child, “there is one thing I want so much, so much; I am going to leave you very soon now; grandma told me this morning she would soon come for me; but I want you to promise me something before I go.”
“What is it, my darling?” asked his mother, as she kissed his pale brow.
“I want you to keep Fannie always with you, and let her be your little girl. She will be your comfort. The spirits want this, too; I think they sent me to her last summer, and they brought her to us. Please, mamma and papa, say she may always stay here with you.”
“Yes, dear,” answered the father, “your mamma and I decided this some time ago. We can never part with the little one willingly. She is too precious to us, and she has been too dear to our little boy for us to let her go from us.”
A smile of joy flashed over the child’s features; he was at rest now; nothing else could disturb him, for he was near the gates of the Summer-land. His little friend was to be cared for; that was all he could desire. With a loving kiss and grateful glance to his dear parents, he sank into a sweet and dreamless sleep.
The March winds came and whistled around the old, stately house; the white snow still lay upon the ground. It had been an unusually cold winter; many poor souls had felt the biting blast; but little Fannie Davis, cared for by loving friends and guardian spirits, had been mercifully protected from all want and suffering.
It was twilight,—the angel’s hour in that home of wealth and splendor. Mr. and Mrs. Hedge, good doctor May, the gentle old nurse, and little Fannie Davis were gathered around the couch of the child whose mortal life was fast ebbing away. But there was a far larger company gathered in that silent room,—angelic beings came to take the loved one home, and these the eyes of the child watched with solemn delight. Calmly, sweetly, gently, his soul passed out from the body, to be met by loving welcome, and borne to the blooming bowers of Summer-land, where all is beauty, gladness, and joy.
Tender hands robed the little form of clay in garments of spotless white, adorned it with rare and fragrant flowers, and with many caresses and tears, consigned it to its last resting-place. But the little boy, Frankie, now glad and strong and free, still lived in a beautiful home, from which he could return to those he loved.
Three days after the burial of the body, Mr. and Mrs. Hedge were seated together, conversing sadly of the late events. Little Fannie, who was present, seemed to pay no attention to their conversation; the poor child had grown strangely silent and sad of late, for she missed her little companion more than tongue can tell.
Suddenly her form straightened, her eyes brightened, and a smile spread over her features. “Oh, Frankie, Frankie,” she exclaimed; “he is here—see! see! How good and bright he looks!”
In a moment her eyes closed, her features changed, and passing to the side of the sofa, where the elder parties were seated, she embraced them fondly, and in Frankie’s well-known tones addressed them, telling of his pleasure, his beautiful home, how well and strong he had grown; telling of the dear ones with him, and expressing his delight at the opportunity of returning to his dear, dear parents.
What a happy hour was this!—their dear one returning to speak to them. Tears of joy fell from their eyes, and the sorrowing parents were lead to rejoice in the goodness and mercy of our Father in Heaven.
Often after this was the scene repeated; almost daily, Frankie would return, and control little Fannie to speak to his father and mother; many times he appeared to the little girl, and the children would play together, as though both were in the form; so that loneliness and sorrow vanished from the hearts of all, and it indeed seemed that their dear one had never died.
Mr. and Mrs. Hedge never had cause to regret adopting Fannie Davis; she was the light and life of their household, through whom the angels came and ministered to weary hearts. Many a life has been comforted, many a home brightened by the messages of love, hope, and cheer, given through her organism by good spirits. She is now a young lady,—sweet, gentle, and lovable,—whose purest happiness comes to her life when she is comforting the sad, and assisting the needy. Spirit Frankie, with her own dear father and mother, and many other angels, guard and guide her on in her useful mission of helpfulness and love. Thus, you may see, dear children, how the angels ever care for those in need.