She folded her hands upon her bosom, this four-year old child of mine and as her breathing became more labored, prayed as I led her: "Jesus. You love little children: help me!" that was at midnight on November 28, 1932. A few minutes later, she had joined the angels and left us in anguish that numbered all feelings.
But t have since risen from the depths to which Sonia's death crushed me, and phoenix- like have left my dead ashes, to sing the charms that the death of one so dearly loved can bring to the soul. I have known the darkness of occasional brooding, but I would dwell most upon a struggle with sorrow that has sweetened my nature, which otherwise, would have been stultified by the pain.
Pain, I have realized, is beautiful only when one can rise from its depressing power. I have known the people who have become bitter and cynical under the lash of sorrow, and I have known some who have never recovered from anguish. My experience is important only so far as it may help others towards growth: it is worthless to me if it implies vanity.
Sonia is, to me, as fairy tale told or a lyric half lost in fancy, a delicate melody unsung. Had she grown into full womanhood, she might have become an intellectual, for she was deliberate and clear- cut in her language, precise in her reasoning, and keen in sensing nuances which matured minds about her could not appreciate; then, I should have been forever lost, the glamour of its poetry never felt even in vague suggestions, and the delicate melodies never perceived. As a friend suggested to me when grief was most oppressive: "you shall always remember her as a child. "How beautiful I felt it was! What a beautiful things a man perceives in such sorrow! What keen and living poetry! For nothing but poetry could give such feeling. In such a moment reason would have destroyed me with consummate triumph; for if I had tried to