A lady entered a car on the Oakwood road one day the past
week, leading a little girl perhaps four years old. The mother sat down and
lifted the little one to the seat beside her. The child was nibbling at a bit
of cake or sugar. Now and then turning her face, full of childish love, up to
her mother, and murmuring some almost unintelligible word of affection.
Opposite to mother
and child sat another young lady. who often smelled a rose which she held. The
innocent little one before her attracted her' attention, and the natural
kindliness of the sympathetic woman heart prompted her to at once offer the
fragrant flower to the little budding lily opposite. So she leaned a bit
forward and spoke:
"Baby want
the posey?"
But the child
seemed not to hear. Perhaps it was the noise of the moving car that prevented.
Then she spoke a little louder, and held the flower forward temptingly:
"Baby may
have the posey:'
The mother heard, for she looked toward the other lady and
smiled-and oh! such a look of heartfelt gratitude, of motherly love, yet
heavily saddened with such an expressive tinge of sorrow as is seldom seen, and
still the lady of the rose pressed upon the little one acceptance of the
flower.
"Baby,
take the rose," holding it almost to the child's hands. And now it seemed
she was heard, for the blue eyes turned full upon her would-be patron, and
then, in a moment she strangely drew back and turned her eyes appealingly
toward her mother's face. The lady with the flower showed her bewilderment in
her look, while a pained expression flitted across the face of the mother, who
leaned forward and whispered just a word:
"My
darling is blind!"
Then the whole
sunless, darkened life of the fair little being-fair as the flower which had
been offered to her came up before the mind. All beauty shut from her forever!
For her no foliage-strewn. flower-studded scene to follow the bleakness of
winter. No looking with awe into the mysterious depths of the night sky,
sparkling with glittering. twinkling star-gems, for over those blue eyes the
Creator, in the mystery of His designs, had hung the impenetrable veil. No
expectant gaze toward the mother's face for the gentlest smile that ever
soothes a childish trouble; only the blind passage of the little hand over and
over those features, for one moment's sight of which that little one will often
and often willingly offer years of existence. For her the birds will sing, but
the loveliness of form and feather are not. For her, while the babbling stream
may make mysterious music, its dimpled waves and winding reaches and verdant
banks do not exist.
How vividly bitter all this as the lady opened the little
hand and shut within it the thornless stem of the rose, now bearing a tear on
its petals. And there were other swimming eyes in the car.
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