Lime Gemini’s Triangle

Whenever a good child dies, an angel of God comes down from heaven, takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies with him over the places the child has loved during his life. Then he gathers a large handful of flowers that he carries up to the Almighty that they may bloom more brightly in heaven than they do on earth. And the Almighty presses the flowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and it receives a voice and is able to join the song of the chorus of bliss.
An angel of God spoke these words as he carried a dead child up to heaven, and the child listened as it in a dream. Then they passed over well-known spots where the little one had often played, and through beautiful gardens full of lovely flowers.
“Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted there?” asked the angel.
Close by grew a slender, beautiful rosebush, but some wicked hand had broken the stem, and the half-open rosebuds hung all faded and withered on the trailing branches.
“Poor rosebush. Then he kissed the child, and the little one half-opened his eyes. The angel gathered also some beautiful flowers, as well as a few humble buttercups and heartsease.
“Now we have flowers enough,” said the child, but now the angel only nodded. He did not fly upward to heaven.
It was night and quite still in the great town. Here they remained, and the angel hovered over a small narrow street in which lay a large heap of straw, ashes, and sweeping from houses of people who had moved away. There lay fragments of plates, pieces of plaster, rags old hats, and other stuff. Amidst all of this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a broken flowerpot, and to the lump of earth that had fallen out of it. The earth had been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a withered field flower that had been thrown amongst the garbage.
“We will take this with us,” said the angel. “I will tell you why as we fly along,”
And as they flew, the angel related the history.
“Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, living a poor sick boy. He had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he could just manage to walk up and down the room the room on crutches once or twice, but no more. During some days in summer the sunbeams would lie on the floor of the cellar for about half an hour. In this spot the poor sick boy would sit warming himself in the sunshine and watching the red blood through his delicate fingers as he held the before his face. Then he would say he had been out, though he knew nothing of the green forest in its spring verdure till a neighbor’s son brought him a green bough from a beech tree. This he would place over his head, and fancy that he was in the beechwood while the sun shone and the birds caroled gaily. One spring day the neighbor’s boy brought him some field flowers, and among them was one to which the roots still adhered. This he carefully planted by a fortunate hand, for it grew, put forth fresh shoots, and blossomed every year. It becomes a splendid flower garden to the sick boy, and his little treasure upon earth. He watered it and cherish it, and took care it should have the benefit of every sunbeam that found its way into the cellar, from the earliest morning ray to the evening sunset. The flower entwined itself even in his dreams. For him it bloomed: for him it spread its perfume. And it gladdened his eyes, and to the flower he turned, even in death, when the Lord called him. He has been one year worth God. During that time the dower has stood in the window, withered and forgotten, till cast out among he sweepings into the street, on the day the lodgers moved. And this poor flower, withered and faded as it is, we have added to the nosegay, because it gave more real joy that the most beautiful flower in the garden of a queen.”
“But how do you know all this?” asked the child whom the angel was carrying to heaven.
“I know it,” said the angel, “because I myself was the poor sick boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well.”
Then the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious happy face of the angel, and at the same moment they found themselves in that heavenly home where all is happiness and joy. And God pressed the dead child to His heart, and wings were given him so that he could fly with the angel, and in hand.
Then the Almighty pressed all the flowers to His heart. But He kissed the withered field flowers, and it received a voice. Then it joined in the song of the angels, who surrounded the throne, some near, and others in a distant circle, but all equally happy, and small-the good, happy child and the poor field flower that once lay withered and cast away on a heap of garbage in a narrow dark street.