Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1880-03-01
THE DEATH OF A wIFE.

How often we have heard the idle
words, "when you die I'll soon get ano-
ther," spoken by husband to loving
dutiful wife. We, the other day, heard
these words testify uttered by husband
whose soul is wrapped up in the wife
they were addressed to. Oh thought
less, sharp-edged words, how easily said,
but alas how terrible the reality when
that dear wife is no more.
Wait, brother, before you speak un-
kindly to your wife. Remember the
many household trials and vexations she
is subject to; the anxiety for the pre-
cious souls God has, perhaps. placed in
her keeping. Speak slowly and heed
the appeal of one who has seen the clam
my hand of death suddenly laid on her
who was the JOY, the pride, the life of
her household; harken to the words Of
one who has seen the life ebb away of
as gentle and loving wife as God ever
gave to man, without receiving word
of farewell or even gentle pressure of
the hand-taken without moments
warning, and leaving to desolate hearts
only the consolation of knowing that her
clamp was trimmed and burning" and
the promise of Christ that ''the pure
heart shall see God" Brother, be pa
tient, be kind, be true, be just to your
wife. When she is gone it will not be
SO easy to get one like her. To-day the
rose of health may bloom upon her
cheek and her eye beam with love to-
morrow,
You may return to a desolate home
! And list for a step that will never come,
And yearn for voice that must still be dumb.
! Where the silent room and vacant chair
Have memories sweet, but oh, how hard to bear,
! While the ha.stunned senses wander back
| To the cheerless life and the thorny track.
Love is not in our power and what
seems stranger, is not in our choice but
only love purely and sincerely where
some mysterious power ordains we
should therefore in comparison with
the loss of wife, all other bereavements
are trihing. The wife she who fills
so large space in the domestic heaven !;
she who busted herself so unweariedly
for the precious ones around her; Bit
ter, bitter is the tear which falls on her
cold clay. You stand beside her coffin
and think of the past.-1t seems an am
ber colored pathway, where the sun
shone upon beautiful flowers, or the stars
hung glittering overhead. Fain would
the soul linger there. No thorns are
remembered save those your hands have
unwittingly planted. Her noble, tender
heart lies open to your inmost sight.
You think of her now as all gentleness,
all purity, all beauty. But she is dead.
The head which has so oft rested SO
lovingly upon your bosom is now laid
upon pillow of clay. The hands that
have ministered SO untiringly are folded
beneath the gloomy portal. The heart
whose very beat measured an eternity OF
love, lies under your feet. There is nc
white arm over your shoulder, no speak.
ing face to look up in the eye of love
no trembling lips to sympathize with
you and murmur, "Oh, it is too sad =
There is so strange hush in every
room, no footsteps passing round, NJ
smile to greet you And the old clocl
ticks and strikes-it was such music
when she could hear it, Now it seems
to knell on the hours through which yor
watched the shadow of death gathering
on her sweet face.-And every day the
clock repeats that sad story. Many
another tale doth the old clock tell, o.
beautiful words and deeds of love tha
are registered above. You feel, oh how
often, the grave cannot keep her-tha
she will live again.