Omaha daily bee., 1889-08-18
THE GYPSY'S BABY IS DEAD.
A Sad Scene in the Grace Street
Bottoms.
NATURES CHILD CALLED HOME
Sorrow Reigns Where the Tents
CLEAN in the Moonlight-A Case
~ Which Calls FOR Gem
uine sympathy.
The Baby is Called Home.

There are many, many phases in this life
we live. There are joys and SORROWS, hopes
aud fears, anticipations and realizations.
The bitter oft exceeds the sweet, the happi-
ness the pain No matter what the station
be, the Christening hand is laid in Its heav-
ness where the light touch of love would be
thousand fold more welcome. We see ex.
amples every day. The flowers we cher
ished most are soonest touched by frost;
the idols worshipped most devoutly, soonest
shattered.
Down in the bottoms at the east end of
Grace street Is a gypsy camp Under the
trees gleam the white tents in the moon
light. Joyful is the children's laugh at
noontIme All are happy-aiparently
There are two families of Gypsies in the
camp. One bears the name Of Fisher, the
other Stokes. The former are couple who
have passed the meridian of life. The man
what a man! tall, symmetrical even in his
advanced years, almost picturesque, he
greets the stranger with a bow SO COURT y
that one almost wonders if he at one time
were not an earl. The woman; even though
she be descending lfe's vale, the raven black
hair with its tinge of silver, the lustrous eye,
the stately carriage, the easy almost celestial
grace leads the observer to wonder if in days
gone by she was not once one OF society's
gems.
There Is another family whose names have
they, even though Gypsies, possess all the
traits of those VINO grace the gilded halls OF
society. But the luster of the woman's eye
Is dimmed with tears, and the brow OF the
husband is ciouded with a grief that knows
no balm. For, under the sheltering folds Of
the canvas covering that keeps the storm
from those who seek refuge beneath its pro-
tecting folds, lies little babe. Closed are the
dark eyes under the brown lashes (;
brushed the bonny slken curls;
folded across the little breast are the
waxen hands-baby's dead. Away across
the river OF death, whose farther shore
shines in the effulgence of an eternal day, a
tiny voice Joins in the melody of the angelic
choir-the Gypsy's baby's dead.
And at o'clock this morning, when the
devotee repairs TO his shrine to worship at
the gilded altar Of art, these children of ma
ture, under the trees will take q last look at
the fair face so still IN death, in their simple
way W III invoke the Creator to transplant to
the everlasting garden the little flower. And
| tonight, out under the starlight, when the
| is requiem, in little graveyard at Florence
| will be another mound, whose cold dead
| clods rising above the grassy surface will
! mark the last resting place of the Gypsy 5
] baby. e. ~
A reporter visited the camp yesterday
| The old couple, who, by the way, are the lit
| tie dead Infants grandparents, greeted him
| cordially, and invited him to come inside.
| There lay the infant on the rough cot, its lit
tie face covered. Beside the couch reclined
the father asleep, worn out with watching
by its bedside. The mother STOOD by weep
ling, while little girl and sturdy boy clung
| 70 her skirts. 1t was indeed sad picture.
| 1.-THE funeral will be tomorrow" said the
| elder woman. "Rev. Mr.. Brady of Trinity
| Cathedral. will preach the sermon. He is
| Episcopal, so are we. We are English Gyp.
sies, the kind Dickens wrote of, buth--with
| smile-''we are not as bad rs he pictured
them. We are earths children and live and
| sleep only IN her bosom.n Then she turned
despite her efforts at self coptrol The scene
| was sacred, and the holy Of hol'es Of eYen q
Gypsy family too sanctiied 70 be described.
| The reporter lefl