Whenever a child dies, an angel comes down from heaven, takes the child in its arms, and spreading out its large white wings, visits all the places that had been particularly dear to the child. From the best-loved place the angel gathers a handful of flowers, flying up again to heaven with them. There they bloom more beautifully than on earth. But that flower which is most loved receives a voice, so that it can join the song of the chorus of bliss.Hans Christian Anderson
