The St. Charles herald. [volume] (Hahnville, La.) 1873-1993, 1884-07-19
"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 in
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 forehead; the roses were turned
to lilies on her checks; the lovely violet
eyes saw them not, but We're upturned
and fixed; the breath on the pale lips
came and went, futtered and seemed
loath to leave its sweet prison. o, the
awful, cruel strength of death; the
weakness, the helplessness, of love !
Those 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 hushedi
Then it was, as the shadows fell in
denser waves about us, that she stirred
ever SO family, and our hearts gave a
great bound as we thought, ."She is
betterl She win liyen Yes. she knew
us; her eyes moved from one face to the
other, with dim, uncertain gael o!
how good God was to give her back!
How we could praise and bless Him all
our lives. She lifted one dainty hand
cold-almost pulseless, but better, bet
ter-we would have it so-and laid it on
the rough, Drowned hand of the rugged
man who sat nearest to her. His eve
lids were red with weeping, but now a
smile lighted all his bronzed face like a
rainbow as he felt the gentle pressure of
his little daughters hand-the mute,
imploring touch that meant a question.
"What is it, darlingpn 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 shene in the twilight like
a 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
reaching out her little wasted arms
said, in her weary, flute-Iike voice:
''Help me across, papap'
Then she was gone! We held to oul
breaking hearts the frail, beautiful
she'll, but she was far away, whittier we
dare not follow. She had crossed the
dark river, and not alone.
cover the river the boatman pale
Carried another household pet.
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessy entered the phantom bark;
We felt II glide from the silver sands,
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark"
Q, infinite Father! When we weary
and disappointed ones reach our plead
ing hands to Thee, wilt Thou take us
even us the little child, and help us
across over the mountains of defeat and
the valleys of humiliation 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 PreSbyte-
ian.