Harriet Prescott Spofford

“ She had never quite felt like giving it to Martin's wife,—Martin had been the only child left to them. At one time she thought she would keep it for Jerry's wife,—although to Jerry, Martin's son, all girls were yet as shadows. At another time she felt she ought to give it to Louisa, who was to be married some day;—but she loved Emmy best. And then she didn't know. She had an intimate fancy that, after all, she would like to have it buried with her,—she would like to rise at the last day with the pin on; she had always asked to be laid away in a white gown ”

“ But she had never wished for wealth. In those early days when he had given her the pin she wanted only the health and strength she had, to make his home blessed; and love wrought in her every thought and step, and gave her face, as he felt without thinking, a glorified look.
That face of hers never seemed to him exactly to grow old, although so many years had wrought their work upon it, although Martin had come to man's estate, and was married, and his children had been born on the place with which he struggled for a living. ”

“ The sky a fleece of rose and gold and blue, mists sweeping away in flocks over the low meadows, and leaf and bough and sod drenched with dew. Busy on her pressing household errands, she had no time to stay and look about; she hardly knew she saw things then that now she seemed to see vividly. She remembered one morning when he came in from milking and told her to look up the hill pasture,—little Jerry, their grandson, was setting out raspberry canes there to-day ”

“ It was just before the fall of the tree that reduced her husband to his two canes that, one Sunday noon, they were coming home from meeting. "That's a good sort of preachin'," said he,—"that we thank the Lord for our blessin's jest by enjoyin' 'em."
"I've had a sight of enjoyment in this life," she sighed in pure pleasure, stooping to pick a flower—that flew away, being only a large white moth. "I wonder what the next will be."
"Eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things prepared," said her husband. ”

“ These children all but draw my breath for me!"
"It's done the children a sight o' good, growin' up 'ith you and their grandpa," said their mother, bringing to the door the rug she was braiding. "It's made a woman of Emmy, bein' here with you. An' havin' sech a comrade as his grandpa's done more for Jerry than a term at the academy."
"The dear little people," said Grandma. "It's been everythin' to me, too, Annie. They don't know what it is to be blind." ”