  (A FACT.) When nearly eight years old, dear little Mac Was called from out his happy home-life here To that blest sphere Beyond earth's dearest power to call him back. "His questions wise will now sure answer find," Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face, In happy chase "Yes, he knows more than we," another said, "Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guide To where abide The things we need most to be comforted." While thus the older ones their comfort sought, Two of the children paused in midst of play, To have their say Concerning this great mystery Death had brought. "Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh, Way up so far That we can't ever see him till we die." "He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be. I saw them put him in the cold dark ground, And I went round And threw some flowers in for him to see." "He isn't there," replied the four-year old, "He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so. He is, I know. He isn't in the ground all dark and cold." A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought, While Miriam felt the joy of victory. The lovely six-year-old this idea caught: "I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground; His head, his feet, and every other part, But just his heart— And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found." The child thus solved the thought that troubled so. And as I overheard this earnest talk,— Which might some shock,— I wondered if we could more wisdom show. As each seemed satisfied, their play went on. But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind, The wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone. At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night," She softly said, "It can't be very dark, Not very dark For Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light." Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days, Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide, When sadly tried By doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways. D MacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887. |
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