sacrifice, since they preserved the life of a little innocent.
Such dead as these are countless, Enrico; every graveyard contains hundreds of these sainted beings, who, if they could rise for a moment from their graves, would cry the name of a child for whom they gave up the joys of youth, the peace of old age, their affections, their learning, their life: wives of twenty, men in the flower of their strength, octogenarians, youths, heroic and obscure martyrs to infancy, so grand and so noble, that the earth does not produce as many flowers as should strew their graves. To such a degree are ye loved, O children! Think to-day on those dead with gratitude, and you will be kinder and more affectionate to all those who love you, and who toil for you, my dear, fortunate son, who, on the day of the dead, have, as yet, no one to grieve for.
Your Mother.
