The Dawson journal., 1883-05-31
BABY IS DEAD.
BY KIT WARREN.

~ - 10 IttSt4CSo dINt OilO
soft, tender hands viii cling to her
no more forever. The little shoes
he wore and the little pillow upon
which his head reposed, tenantless
and neglected, proclaim that baby
is no longer here and the heart Of
the mother restless with despair.
Through those binding tears she
cannot see "a smiling face" "be-
hind the frowning Providence"
that over shadows her. She can
not feel that
What seem to us but sad. furneral tapers
May be Heavens distant lamps"
"Baby is dead, dead, dead" ""No,
mother, baby is not dead. He is
only a visitor, a guest, Who has left
you for healthier, happier home
"in the summer land of song
to receive the fostering care of a
parent yet more tender and loving,
gone to register another arrival on
the Lambs book oflife. Poor hu-
man nature! how frail! how weakl
how blindl You would feign have
baby resign his crown, give back
his harp, squander his immortal
heritage like prodigal, leave his
fathers house and come back to
be fed upon the husks and endure
the pains and cares which are in
evitable in this bleak and desolate
existence. All, while the dust
weeps, the soul has cause for JOY;
Joy that reaches and expands be-
yond the limits of expression.
Baby has found a iefuge from
danger, a shelter from the storm.
He has found what you are not
to possess while you finger here,
he has found ''home, sweet
home" Baby was never SO sweet,
silent image, with its folded arms,
which hes before you. That i'm
age is but the flimsy morning
dress he wore. He is now cloth
ed in robe which cost the wealth
of Heaven to buy. Mother! moth
er, why weep% You have lived
to see the vanitie3 of life, which
the baby will never know. You
have lived to realize that
Youth, hope, and beauty's bloom
Are blossoms gather for the tomb"
You too, are passing away-close
behind-almost in calling distance
Of your angel infant. That infant
is as an anchor lifted from earth
to moor you TO the skies. Already
you feel that the chords which
bind you here are loosing, and oh
it may be that the little hands
unseen, bcckon you from the dis.
tant shore.
In a panorama of "Pilgrim's
Progress once witnessed an il.
lustration of maternal love which
affected me more than many read
ings of the book. Christiana haC
just parted from her weeping
children and began to wade across
the cold death stream. The darl
angels wing, like the pinion ot
the stormy petrol, brooded ovel
the turbid waters. On, on, on
and the darkness grows and tht
current deepens, and the timid
faltering step is sustained only b,
the power OF fortitude and faith
On, on, on, and the deepest is pass
ed, the force Of the current abate.
and faint Streaks Of light are pur
ping on the howery borders of til,
Glory Land. On, on, on, and til,
stream IS shallow, music reache.
her ear, and now-in full orbeC
splendor- the heaven she hai
longed and struggled and suffered
to reach breaks upon her view. Il
that moment of intense, inexpres
slble beatitude-eyen then-sh,
turns, turns from the majesty O
heaven-turns from ineffable beau
ties and immortal symphonies
turns to bestow last, loving lool
upon the children she has left be
hind. The blaze Of heaven coulC
not exhale the fountain of a moth
er's love. She sees the little fee
she has led thus far, and the little
hands reach imploringly forward
Her voice can no longer reach the
other shore, but she points them tC
the celestial city and passes on
Now, mother, ike Christiana, yor
must one day wade the cold deatl
stream. Like her, you may leaC
your surviving children to the
brink Of the river with the "shad(
OF the trees" on the other side
Like her, you may turn your eyes
from the attractions and splendors
of heaven to look, for the last time
upon them. But oh! there is vel
another picture foryour panorama.
Baby sees you coming; his harp
has fallen, his crown lies dropped
and forgotten, he bends forward,
reaches his little arms towards
and sings with heavens sweetness:
Mother dear mother, come to us now. -
You will not then think baby's
dead You'll not r3pine that your
arms We're once too short to draw
him from the skies. "Baby S
dead" Yes; dead to sin, dead to
Temptation, dead to anguish you
feel today, dead to dealt, and the
fear OF death, dead to everything
but life and joy and peace eternal.
Mother, suffering mother, you de-
serve compassion; compassion for