File:Home school of American literature- (1897) (14749838635).jpg

Identifier: homeschoolofamer00bird (find matches)
Title: Home school of American literature:
Year: 1897 (1890s)
Authors: Birdsall, William Wilfred, 1854-1909, (from old catalog) comp. and ed Jones, Rufus Matthew, 1863- (from old catalog) joint comp. and ed
Subjects: American literature English literature
Publisher: Philadelphia, Pa., Elliott publishing co
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

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the threshold,they looked at one another, and at me, andwhispered. I know why. They felt as if it werenot right to lay him down in the same quietroom. CHARLES DICKENS. 633 THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.From The Old Curiosity Shop. (g^^lHE was dead. No sleep so beautiful andmSiSii calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair tolook upon. She seemed a creature freshfrom the hand of God, and waiting for the breathof life; not one who had lived and suffereddeath. Her couch was dressed with here and there somewinter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spotshe had been used to favor. When I die, put ness were born,—imaged in her tranquil beautyand profound repose. And still her former self lay there, unaltered inthis change. Yes. The old fireside had smiledupon that same sweet face ; it had passed like adream through haunts of misery and care; at thedoor of the poor schoolmaster on the summerevening, before the furnace-fire upon the cold wetnight, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there
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Dickens Old Curiosity Shop. near me something that has loved the light andhad the sky above it always. Those were herwords. She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, nobleNell was dead. Her little bird—a poor slightthing the pressure of a finger would have crushed—was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strongheart of its child-mistress was mute and motionlessforever. Where were the traces of her early cares, hersufferings and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow wasdead indeed in her ; but peace and perfect happi- had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall weknow the angels in their majesty, after death. The old man held one languid arm in his, andhad the small hand tight folded to his breast, forwarmth. It was the hand she had stretched outto him with her last smile,—the hand that hadled him on through all their wanderings. Everand anon he pressed it to his lips; then huggedit to his breast again, murmuring that it waswarmer now; and as he said it, he looked, inagony, to those who stood

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