I think that in the death of children
there is an added grief to that we feel when men and women die. They
are so little, so helpless, one cannot help feeling anxious about how
they will get along in the new world they have gone to; who will take
care of them, and whether they will be neglected. When the time comes
for putting the children to bed in the evening, we cannot help thinking
about the little one who has gone from life, and wondering as we sit
by the firelight whether there is any one taking care of it. We can't
help feeling sure that it wants to be with its mother; it always used
to when night came on. It always climbed into her lap when dark came
and it surely wants to be back to-night. It cannot be happy, for it
is among strangers, and if it is unhappy, there is but one place for
it, its home, and but one bosom on which to lay its head, its mother's.
And so our human heart talks on in its hot grief. It is a great comfort
to remember, after awhile, that there is a Father who watches over it
as tenderly as he has watched over all his children, and who will guide
the little one into a new and higher life, as He will us older children
who come to Him later in life, like tired and weary children seeking
a mother's breast.
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