To Have A Cricket On The Hearth

For The Rest Of His Life, Oliver Twist Remembers A Single Word Of Blessing Spoken To Him By Another Child Because This Word Stood Out So Strikingly From The Consistent Discouragement Around Him.

"some Persons Hold," He Pursued, Still Hesitating, "that There Is A Wisdom Of The Head, And That There Is A Wisdom Of The Heart..."

I Recollected One Story There Was In The Village, How That On A Certain Night In The Year (it Might Be That Very Night For Anything I Knew), All The Dead People Came Out Of The Ground And Sat At The Heads Of Their Own Graves Till Morning.

For The Night-wind Has A Dismal Trick Of Wandering Round And Round A Building Of That Sort, And Moaning As It Goes; And Of Trying, With Its Unseen Hand, The Windows And The Doors; And Seeking Out Some Crevices By Which To Enter.

There Is Nothing--no, Nothing--innocent Or Good, That Dies And Is Forgotten; Let Us Hold To That Faith Or None. An Infant, A Prattling Child, Dying In The Cradle, Will Live Again In The Better Thoughts Of Those That Loved It, And Play Its Part Through Them In The Redeeming Actions Of The World, Though Its Body Be Burnt To Ashes Or Drowned In The Deep Sea.