Wichita eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1886-1890, 1886-08-29
BLESSED BE SATURDAY NIGHT!

The hammer, the saw, the chisel, the pond
erous heavy ledger, the tireless hurry, whir
| and clatter of machinery all put away with
the first welcome sound OF the 8 O'Clock
whistle, and tired hands and heavy brains all
welcome the blessed Saturday night, fore
runner of day of rest.
Another week almost gone: only feH
hours more and the new day will be born,
and another Saturday night be rolled into
that fathomless cavern that lies behind u.s.
Oh, dying week, does the record of thine
hours bear returns of happy smiles; joyous
hearts, and deeds of kindness or hast thy
pages been filled with bitter tears. walls OF
anguish and grief that found no comfort:
i stood few days ago beside an untin-
ished piece of work-an opening long and
narrow and deep in the ground. and digging
away within with pick and shovel-the
grave-digger. Its hard work" | said.
the reply.
Hard work. so hard that | would not
dig one grave, even for all the wealth of the
Vanderbilts, thought |.
On the morrow a funeral cortege
would wind its way along the busy streets.
and that long, narrow, black, yawning hole
in the earth would hold within its depths a
brave, bright, beautiful boy-an only son,
Just on the threshold of manhood. Oh, hor-
rible casket, fair jewel so priceless, thought
|. Why must weeping mothers, grief
stricken fathers and sorrowing friends SO
often stand over so many of these affairs of
sacrifice, and see hidden away within their
depths precious forms that made for them a
heaven of this earth. Oh, mysterious are
the ways of life, and awful in their incOT-
prehensibility are the ways of Providence.
II move away and bend over a little
mound of earth that holds for me the best,
the fairest and the purest of my life, and again
for the thousandth time my soul cries out,
cannot understand, Oh give me light. Vain
the promise, God tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb. AS comfort comes to my aching
heart as kneel upon the hard earth with
my face pr essed upon the little mound that to
others is only child's grave, but to me the
Mecca to which my heart and feet turn ever,
cry aloud in my agony for some sign that
She KNOWS | am there that she looks forward
from week to week for the flowers lay upon
her grave to be withered by the scOrching
sun even as disease and death withered and
blighted my fondest hopes.
i meet on my way ont another young
couple, carrying little basket of flowers and
pot. No need to glance at the quiz
erng up and swollen eyes to read their story
too. More death: more GesOiation another
nest just robbed of its tiny birding.
In their home, too, there has been the
h,,shed tread of many feet-a little coffin SO
hard and narrow for baby, who has always
before been Graded in such loving, clinging
arms. and on such soft, downy pillows. | fam
would stretch out my hand to her and whis-
per a word Of comfort, but my own heart
tells me the world is full of Rachers who will
not ''be comforted" know
= " hen clinglng hands and busy feet
Have grown so still, when one small grave
Holds all the world, and lone love stands
In unvoiced pain, yet fain would rave
With grief and make its vain demands
For Just one sign from out the heart
Of that sad mystery of death,
W hen we, today SO far apart,
Were yesterday SO near, your breath
Was on my cheek Now, all the space
Of the wide earth reveals no place
Where may find you All, It's there
That darkness falls Again, and vet again
The soul doth question. Why, Q why
Does love bloom into life and dies
W hat answer comes.'
The clock ticks slowly, drowsly away
and Saturday night is almost gone. The NOR
row is almost here and we look up the food
gates of memory and say, Oh, remOrseless
lime, give us more days, more weeks, more
years to solve the great mystery of life. Turn
our feet aside FROM the rocks DER which we
stumble, gid our pathway with the sunshine
Of hope and charity.
''Shall we then give up faith-we two:
II we wait patiently our prayer
VIII soon be answered everywhere,
For failure we may be forgiven,
Since humbly We have toiled and striven;
l will not give up faith! will you!
RUTH WISHARD