Page 319 - The Story of My Lif

then explained that he had been shot to relieve him from suffering, and that he

was now BURIED—put into the ground. I am inclined to believe that the idea of
his having been intentionally shot did not make much impression upon her; but I
think she did realize the fact that life was extinct in the horse as in the dead birds
she had touched, and also that he had been put into the ground. Since this
occurrence, I have used the word DEAD whenever occasion required, but with
no further explanation of its meaning.

While making a visit at Brewster, Massachusetts, she one day accompanied my
friend and me through the graveyard. She examined one stone after another, and
seemed pleased when she could decipher a name. She smelt of the flowers, but
showed no desire to pluck them; and, when I gathered a few for her, she refused
to have them pinned on her dress. When her attention was drawn to a marble
slab inscribed with the name FLORENCE in relief, she dropped upon the ground
as though looking for something, then turned to me with a face full of trouble,
and asked, “Were is poor little Florence?” I evaded the question, but she
persisted.

Turning to my friend, she asked, “Did you cry loud for poor little Florence?”
Then she added: “I think she is very dead. Who put her in big hole?” As she
continued to ask these distressing questions, we left the cemetery. Florence was
the daughter of my friend, and was a young lady at the time of her death; but
Helen had been told nothing about her, nor did she even know that my friend had
had a daughter. Helen had been given a bed and carriage for her dolls, which she
had received and used like any other gift. On her return to the house after her
visit to the cemetery, she ran to the closet where these toys were kept, and
carried them to my friend, saying, “They are poor little Florence’s.” This was

true, although we were at a loss to understand how she guessed it. A letter
written to her mother in the course of the following week gave an account of her
impression in her own words:

“I put my little babies to sleep in Florence’s little bed, and I take them to ride in
her carriage. Poor little Florence is dead.

She was very sick and died. Mrs. H. did cry loud for her dear little child. She got