“How beautiful and graceful she was!  When she ran along, singing, her fair golden locks rippling back from her pure brow and rosy cheeks, I thought a sunbeam came and went with her.  The secret of Redbud’s universal popularity—­for everybody loved her—­was, undoubtedly, that love which she felt for every one around her.  There was so much tenderness and kindness in her heart, that it shone in her countenance, and spoke plainly in her eyes.  Upon the lips, what a guileless innocence and softness!—­in the kind, frank eyes, what all-embracing love for God’s creatures everywhere!  She would not tread upon a worm; and I recollect to this day, what an agony of tears she fell into upon one occasion, when some boys killed the young of an oriole, and the poor bird sat singing its soul away for grief upon the poplar.

“Redbud had a strong vein of piety in her character; and this crowning grace gave to her an inexpressible charm.  Whatever men may say, there are few who do not reverence, and hope to find in those they love, this feeling.  The world is a hard school, and men must strike alone everywhere.  In the struggle, it is almost impossible to prevent the mind from gathering those bitter experiences which soil it.  It is so hard not to hate so tremendous a task, to strangle that harsh and acrid emotion of contempt, which is so apt to subdue us, and make the mind the hue of what it works in, ‘like the dyer’s hand.’  Men feel the necessity of something purer than themselves, on which to lean; and this they find in woman, with the nutriment I have spoken of—­the piety of this child.  It did not make her grave, but cheerful; and nothing could be imagined more delightful, than her smiles and laughter.  Sometimes, it is true, you might perceive upon her brow what resembled the shadow of a cloud floating over the bright autumn fields—­and in her eyes a thoughtful dew, which made them swim, veiling their light from you; but this was seldom.  As I have spoken of her, such she was—­a bright spirit, who seemed to scatter around her joy and laughter, gilding all the world she lived in with the kindness of her smiles.

“Such, amigo mio, was little Redbud when I knew her; and I have spoken of her as well as I could.  No one can be more conscious of the insufficiency of my outline than myself.  My only excuse is, a want of that faculty of the brain which—­uniting memory, that is to say, the heart, with criticism, which is the intellect—­is able to embody with the lips, or the pen, such figures as have appeared upon the horizon of life.  I can only say that I never went near the child, but I was made better by her sincere voice.  I never took her hand in my own, but a nameless influence seemed to enter into my heart, and purify it.  And now, amigo, I have written it all, and you may laugh at me for my pains; but that is not a matter of very great importance.  Farewell!”