THE SWEETEST FLOWER.
Small as Daisy was, she saw that her father could never speak to her
again; she remembered how kind he had always been; how many good times
they had had together; how, that very morning, he had waited, on his way
to work, and climbed a tall tree, only to tell her whether the eggs were
hatched in the blue-jay's nest.
She thought, too, how he had let her go farther than usual, and then
walked back with her part way, to be sure she was in the right path, and
how gently he had kissed her at parting, and told her to be a good girl,
and help her mother.
Ah, she would take care to do that now, and never forget the last words
which her dear father spoke to her.
When our friends are taken away, we remember every little kind word, or
look, or smile they ever gave us--things we hardly noticed while they
were alive; and Daisy could remember only kindness, only smiles and
pleasant words. She thought no one could ever have had so good a father
as Peter was to her, and that no little girl could be so lonely and
wretched as she was now.
Who was there left to call her up in the morning before the birds, and
to make her garden tools, and swing her in the boughs, and listen to her
stories at night about the rabbits and flowers? It seemed as if her
heart would break.
But Daisy had one pleasant thought to comfort her--it seemed like a
sweet flower that her father had dropped down from his new home in
paradise, and which she would always wear in her bosom; and perhaps he
would know her by it when, after a great many years, she should go to
live with him there.
This dear thought was, that when Peter lived, she had done every thing
in her power to please him and make him forget his weariness, and that
he had known of this thoughtfulness, and loved her for it, and had
always felt younger and happier when she was by his side.
If your brothers and sisters or parents die, whether by accident or
sickness, are you sure that they would leave you such a comforter as
Daisy had? Think about it; for when you stand by their coffins, and it
is too late to change the past, and the cold lips have spoken their last
word, this little flower will be worth more to you--though no one may
see it except yourself--than all the treasure in the world.
But if you have been cold and cruel, there will come into your heart,
instead, when you think of them, a dismal shadow, which all the light of
the blessed sun cannot drive away.