The Sedalia weekly bazoo. [volume] (Sedalia, Mo.) 187?-1904, 1885-03-24
"A LONELY DEATH.
Pathetic Story of Low Life Told by De-
troit Journalist.

Pathetic Story of Low Life Told by q De-
troit Journalist.
1t was here in Detroit at one of the
city hospitals that / saw the saddest
funeral ceremony ever witnessed.
1t was that of a woman who had
literally died by inches. Poverty, sorrow
I land sickness had been her constant
companions for years, and when at last
on a hospital bed she drew her last
breath. ii seemed as if there could be
nothing left to feel the pang of dissOlu-
tion-nothing but skin and bone.
She had been well cared for in her
fast sickness by those who gave their
time and service to the work of charity,
but il is doubtful if she knew it. Her
mind lived in the past, and she muir
INJURED in delirium of a happy home and
seemed TO be always caressing little
child. Now she would talk TO it in a
sweet mother-tongue, using the fond,
endearing language of love to call 1T to
her: again she seemed to dread some
terrible fate for it, and besought God to
save it, even to take it away from the
evil TO come. Always it was the child
that was present with her, so that pain
was naught-the child that she con-
tinuallv addressed as Darling Emma,
and she died with that name on her
lips.
This was all there was of the dead
woman's history. The pail of dark
past had fallen upon her. 1t was only
known that the child about whom she
had raved and prayed was still alive,
and somewhere in the city. But SO far
all search had failed TO find her
The brief funeral ceremonies-at the
expense of the city, for hers was pau
per burial-were held in the large par
Tor of the hospital. A young clergy
man who had just entered upon his
work, the assistants of the hospital,
the undertaken, hat in hand, and
one or two strangers, were all who
were present. The dead woman lay in
highly vanished pine coffin, from
which the metal shells were already
falling in a shower of tawdry SplendOr,
so imperfectly were they fastened on.
Her face was composed and peaceful.
Life and death had done their worst
the battle was now over.
In the chill and silence the voice OF
the young minister, cultured and tune
fui. sounded like strain of music. All
heads bowed "a he recited:
Il am the resurrection and the life"
There was a Scream-a wall OF heart
rending grief, and the service was in
terupted. as a woman, young and bag
gard, rushed into the room and threw
herself on the coffin; she was dressed
gaily in silk attire A long feather
dangled from gaudy hat-everything
about her bespoke death sadder than
that in the coffin.
Mother, mother" she moaned, why
did YOU not let me know? Oh | would
have come to you and worked my
fingers TO the bone to save YOU! Oh
mother, mother. come back to me just
TO say YOU forgive me. Mother, it is
Your own little Emmy. Do YOU hear
me? 1t is Emmy! Oh. my God. L am
too late: She will never speak to me
again.
Plying friends drew the frenzied
woman away. In moment she had
dashed them aside and leaning again
over the dead mother she pressed her
lips once twice-thrice to the cold
lips of the dead. Then she clasped her
hands and lifted her eyes to Heaven,
while her lips seemed to be recording
VOW. The wintry sun Shone ont AT
that moment from the western SKY, and
touched with golden finger the sad,
sad scene of death in life, and life in
death, and the minister resumed the
service where he had been interrupted:
II ar the resurrection and the life"
Detroit Free Press.