  Again the mother is in the city home. No crib stands by the fireplace; no tiny garments are spread out to air. All is orderly as in the years that now seem so far away. She sits with book or needle. The book falls to her knee, the work slips to the floor; tears steal down her cheeks. Bruno presses near, his head against her arm. With his uplifted, pleading eyes, he seems to say,— "Don't cry, Judith, please don't cry." Oh, matchless comforter! After a time we notice that Bruno is growing old and feeble. Do we grieve at this? Far from it. We feel that life is over for us; our only thought is to escape its grasp and join our Little Blossom. We could never leave Bruno alone; he would grieve himself to death, and meanwhile, perhaps, be abused as a stupid brute for refusing to be comforted. We sit alone, we three, in the twilight,—Julius and I, with Bruno at our feet,—talking of the future. We speculate on the Beyond, hoping it will not be the conventional Heaven, with harps and crowns. We long for a sheltered nook, near the River of Life, where we and Little Blossom can resume the life so happily begun here, going over to the Happy Hunting Grounds to get Bruno, and to the Cat Heaven for Rebecca and Catsie. Then, our family circle complete, we would settle down to an eternity of Home. Can Heaven itself offer anything sweeter than home,—the wedded home, where love abides! One morning Bruno seemed not to care for his breakfast. He sniffed daintily at it, and turned away, though I tried to tempt him with everything he liked best. He rested his head on my knee, looking gratefully into my eyes, while his tail waved his thanks. Then he went to his bed, and lying down There was a beautiful young fig-tree in our lot. Under this his grave was dug. His bed was laid in, he on it, with his blanket wrapped around him. "Arise against thy narrow door of earth, And keep the watch for me!" THE END TRANSCRIBER NOTES:
|
|
