The Bossier banner. [volume] (Bellevue, Bossier Parish, La.) 1859-1952, 1882-10-19
" Help Ne Across, Papa |"
Detroit Free Press.l

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| Detroit Free Press.l
There was anguish in the faces Of
those who bent over the little white
bed, for they knew that baby May
was drifting 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 solicitude her last
brief sorrows, they, too, experienced
in the bitter 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 forhead; the
roses were turned to lilies on her
cheeks; the lovely violet eyes saw them
not, but were upturned and fixed;
the breath on the pale lips came and
went, futtered and seemed 10th to
leave its sweet prison. Oh, the awful,
cruel strength of death, and the
weakness, the helplessness of love /
They who loved her better than life
could not lift hand to avert the de-
stroyer; they could only watch and
wait until the end should come. Her
merry ringing laugh would never
again gladden. their hearts; her little
feet would make no more music as
they ran pattering TO meet them
Baby May was dying, and all the
house was darkened and hushed
Then it was as the shadows fell in
denser waves about us, that she
stirred ever so family, and our hearts
gave great bound as we thought,
''She is betterl She will live" Yes
she knew US; her eyes moved from
one face to the other, with a dim un-
certain gael Obi how good God
was to give her back How we would
praise and bless Him all our lives
She lifted one dainty hand-cold-al-
most 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 eye
lids were red with weeping, but now |
smile lighted all his bronzed face
like q rainbow as he felt the gentle |
pressure Of his little daughters hand |
the mute, imploring touch, that |
meant question.
"What is it darling ?" he asked in |
broken tones of JOY and thanksgiv-
ing.
She could not speak, so we raised
her on the pretty lace pillow, and her
wee white face shone in the twilight
ike fair star, or q sweet woodland
lower.
She lifted her heavy eyes to his
Eyes that even then had the glory
md the promise of Immortality in
hem, and reaching out her little
wasted arms, said in her weary flute
ike voice:
"Help me across, papa"
Then she was gone | We held to
'ur breaking hearts the frail, beauti-
ul shell, but she was far away, whittier
ne might not follow. She had crossed
he dark river, and not alone.
Over the river the boatman pale.
carried the household pet
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
W. felt IL glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark"
Oh, Infinite Fatherl When we
weary and disappointed ones reach
'ut pleading hands to Thee, wilt Thou
AXE us even as the little child, and
lelp us across over the mountains of
lefeat and the valleys of humiliation
nto the eternal rest of Thy presence,
nto the green pastures and beside
he still waters, into the city of the
aew Jerusalem, whose builder and
maker is God.
The New York Times, the leading
Republican paper of the State has
L.