The spirit of democracy. [volume] (Woodsfield, Ohio) 1844-1994, 1882-09-19
.Help Me Across. Papa!''

There was anguish in the faces of
those who bent over the little white bed,
for they knew that baby May was DRIFT
ing away from them, going out alone
into the dark voyage where so many
have been wrested from loving hands,
and as they tried in vain to keep her, or
even to smooth with their kind solicit
ude her last brief sorrows, they, too, ex-
perienced in the hitter hour of parting
the pangs of death They only hoped
that she did not suffer now.
The rings of golden hair lay damp
and unstirred on her white forehead !;
the roses were turned to lilies on her
cheeks; the lovely violet eyes saw them
not, but we're upturned and fixed the
breath on the pale lips came and went,
tluttered and seemed 10th to leave its
sweet prison. Oh, the awful, cruel
strength of death, and the weakness, the
helplessncss of love!
They who loved her better than life
could not lift hand to avert the de-
stroyer; they could only watch aud wait
until the end should come Her merry,
ringing laugh would never again glad
den their hearts,; her little feet would
make no more music as they raj palter-
ing to meet them. Baby May was dy-
ing, and all the house was darkened and
hushed!
Then it was as the shadows fell in
denser waves about US, that she stirred
ever 50 family, and our hearts gave a
great bound as we thought "She is bet
ter! She will live" Yes, she knew US ;
her eyes moved from one face to the
other, with dim, uncertain gaze! Oh!
how good God was to give her back =
How we would praise and bless Him all
our lives! She lifted one dainty hand
-cold-almost pulseless, but better,
better-we would have it so-and laid
it on the rough, Drowned hand Of the
rugged man who sat nearest to her,
His eyelids we're red with weeping, but
now smile lighted all his bronzed face
like rainbow as he felt the gentle pres
sure OF his little daughters hand-the
mute. imploring touch, that meant q
question.
"What is it, darl,ng2" he asked in
broken tones Of joy and thanksgiving
She could not speak, and so we raised
her on the pretty lace pillow, and her
wee white face shone in the twilight like
a fair star, or sweet woodland flower.
She lifted her heavy eyes to his-eyes
that even then had the glory and the
promise of Immortality in them, and
reach out her little wasted arms, said in
her weary. flute like voice:
"Help me across, papa!"
Then she was gone! We held to our
breaking hearts the frail, beautiful shell,
but she was far awav, whittier we might
not follow. She had crossed the dark
river, and not alone.
Over the river the boatman pale
Carried another, the household pet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands
And fearlessy entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silvery sands.
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark
Oh. Infinite Father! When we weary
and disappointed ones reach out plead
ing hands to Thee, wilt Thou take US
even a, the little child, and help us
across over the mountains of defeat and
the valleys of humiliaii IN into the eter-
nal rest of Thy presence, into the green
pastures and beside the still waters, into
the City OF the New Jerusalem, whose
builder and maker is God 2"- Detroit
Free Press.