The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1875-06-17
From Pomeroy's Democrat. by request.
OUR SATURDAY NIGHT.
A Mothers Heart.

OUR SATURDAY NIGHT.
A Mothers Heart.
The room wherein we write is very,
very still. Looking out from the win
dew we can see long lines of FIRE on
the not far distant hills and fences and
forest are consumed by the elements
in obedience to law of nature no man
IN understand or give reason for. Be-
tween US and the hills, nesting under
the wings of slumber is much of a
loved city and thousands who are on
this beautiful Saturday Night, resting
with their loved ones under roofs all
their own, to gather life's renewal of
health and strength for the duty of the
morrow.
Beyond the city is silent river,
seeming like a belt of silver sheen as
its waters flow on steadil y to mingle
with the absorbing ocean miles away
to the east. Then comes stretch of
plain and multitudes who live in the
dear old farmhouses, upon whose
roofs and into whose doors and win
dows the morning sun intrudes, SO
warm and lovingly, as it whispers that
at last spring has come. Beyond
these are the hills, the forest, the fires,
the heart and the smoke rising to
mingle with the atmosphere, and he lp
work out the changes called for by
that great power which is constantly
destroying the old, to build the newer
and the more beautiful.
See the fires, how they burn and
blaze. But not of them. From an
upper window we see in the city and
with night-glass, over the river, here
and there lights in dwellings, telling
of midnight watches by beds of sick
ness, where are those who need the
care and kindness of friends. Think
of the homes, Of the hearths and fem
aers, of the thousands of happy family
circles, of the living, the well, the sick
and of the dying, there comes picture
of yesterday.
One day, when we were wildly, de-
liriously tossing on bed of sickness,
there came TO our room a neighbor
with some fruit for the weakened
stranger. A modest gift, left without
ostentation to bring forth flowers on
the tree of memory even as does the
seed dropped by the wayside put forth
it'll beautifyins blossoms. That visit
was weeks ago. Since then, health
has nearly returned to the one who
was ill.
A few nights since tried and val
ued friend came to our room and said !:
"Do you remember the neighbor
who came when you were SO ill, with
his present of fruit? He lives close
by, but few steps from here. His
boy, bright, dearly loved lad, is very
ill-they say nigh unto death. must
visit the house of atfliction to see if 1
can be of service shall bear to him
and to his your spmpathies?
"No. 1t is better to go in person.
What if it is night and there be pros
pect of storm? So mu ch the more
need of light and of that sympathy
which purifies all hearts touched there
by. Words are good-acts are better"
In enc corner of a neatly furnished
room, as the hands of the clock point
ed to eleven, lay the young sufferer, q
fair. good faced boy. AT the head of
the bed at the front sat the father, alert
and alive, yet in daze of grief, as his
first born was slowly passing on to
join the invisible threns. Partly re-
clining at the other side of the bed
leaning oyer the loved one who had
first drawn life from her breast, a
heart-breaking mother was trying by
touches of love, tear-wet caresses and
most gentle ministrations, to call her
darling back to life and the love of the
one who had borne HIM so often in her
arms. The grief of the father was
deep, but that of the mother was more
so. A swift and fatal disease had rap
idly hurried tho lad from the fullest
flush of ruddy health to the edge of
the grave and there left him an uncon-
scious, helpless waiter by the bank of
life's great river. There was no cry
of pain-nO convnlsions- ne spasms
telling of suffering uncomfortable, but a
gradual suspension of lies faculties
a sinking away, just as down into the
deep sea gees ship heavily laden
with the hopes and freights of those
who started it from shore.
The pulse had ceased TO beat when
we took the cold hand of the dying
into our own, and there was but the
faintest futter like the receding sounds
from the wings of a dove as it flies
away. The limbs were cold and damp,
from the perspiration following the
final effort of him who so tried to con.
auer fate. The lights in the room
burne d steadily while his light was as
steadily going out. Other friends
were gathered by the bedside or NOV
ing with bated breath about the room,
but the mother saw them not, heard
them not-knew them not-heeded
them not, as her sorely tried heart
answered to every feeble stir, every
faint moan that came from the one
who was reaching for the spirit hands
that lift us all to a foothold where ou,
feet shall be slippered in the daises of
Heaven.
1t seemed as though she could not
give him up. AS he neared the final
moment h Ell heart seemed to quiyel
and to go down into the valley with
him, till at last upon her tears could
have been launched the boat that bore
him TO eternity and the fadeless life