News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1882-08-31
AND a." WAS NOT"
A Touching Story, as Told by that
InimitabIe Writer, M. Quad.

They were strange family no one
ever died with them and was buried.
They laid their dear one away, and
when they spoke of them said they had
"passed over" or "gone home" There
was Jamie, with the blue eyes and
golden hair when they alluded to the
time of his death they said, When our
boy was called" and in running over
the names of their little flock the mother
would say, "Jamie and Nellie are
sleeping" 1t seemed so strange TO the
people about them, for they were not
Quakers or soul-sleepers, nor did they
belong to any seot. 1t was just their
own quaint way. For they were the
worlds people after all, dressed as
others did, all but the dear old grand
mother, who had SO nearly finished her
earthly pilgrimage, and went to the
pleasure resorts with as much zest for
enjoyment as the most triling world
ing nay, more, for under it all they
had concealed freshnesss and goodness
that kept the arid desert of fashion
green with its own up-springing. They
never became world-wise or world-weary,
but looked on with shining eyes and
saw the pictures of life grouped about
them and were content with their own.
1t was to these people, making pic
ture of peace and beauty, that all
loved to look at in that reflex light, by
the seaside, that a sudden call came-a
message over the wires and as others
gathered about with blanched faces and
whispered one solemn word-death-
they looked up with tear-wet Iashes and
echoed softly and with trembling lips,
"Life," and passed away from among
us in gentle, noiseless haste.
For this is what had come to them ::
The old granddame, with her feeble
step and silver hair, had "passed away"
in the morning watch; gone SO swiftly
and peacefully that
They thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died"
And when they laid her away in the
clove-tu fted lot, by the side of the COM
panion of her youth, they found the last
words she had written, with tremulous
hand-iust verse, which showed them
where she had been in spirit
They are all gone into the world of light,
And l alone sit lingering here.
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear"
Then they laid aside the few posses
sions she had left, and underneath her
last writing they added this:
Not dead. not sleeping, not even gone,
But present still,
And waiting for the coming hour
Of Gods sweet will !"
And when they speak of her it is to
say she has gone to the next country,
and they smile to themselves as they
try to picture what she is doing, to fol-
low her in that white world, whose crys-
tai promise glitters in every sky. eye
hath not seen, neither hath ear heard.
nor has it entered into the heart of man
to conceive" of its beauty.
Far out of sight while yet the flesh enfolds us
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide
And ef its bliss is naught more wondrous told us
Than these few words; Z" 1 shall be satisfied. :"
There is a tender and true story of
Walt Whitman at the funeral of lit
tie child, nephew, the poet sat near
the white coffin, and held on his knee a
beautiful little girl she looked in
childish wonder on the paraphernalia
of death, and then inquiringly gazed
nto the old mans face. "You don't
know what it is, my dear, do you ?" said
the poet gently then he added, re-
fectively /: Neither do we !"
Nothing is known; but l believe
That God is overhead,
And as life is to the living,
So death is to the dead"