The gold leaf. [volume] (Henderson, N.C.) 1881-1911, 1891-06-25
Grief in the Home of a Friend.

To our valued and esteemed young |
friend James H. Lindsay, editor of the |
Basic City, Va, Adcance, and his
estimable wife, we offer our con-
doing sympathies in the death OF
their infant daughter, Erie Carlisle.
Only those who have tasted of the same
bitter cup know the poignant grief that
fills the heart of the young parents.
The many friends of Mr.. and Mrs.
Lindsay in North Carolina will be
panied at the announcement OF their
bereavement.
In the Advance of last week we lind
this beautiful and touching article, from
| the pen of one we think who has HIM
| self walked through the valley OF a
great sorrow since the passing of the
spirit of a loving wife and devoted
mother. Under the caption of "Baby
is Dead" it reads:
Within darkened room, with cur
tains closely drawn, the sands ola little
life are fastening to their end. Two
big brown eyes look up from the tevered
pillow with sad appeal for help that
cannot come. Baby curls have gath
cred in ringlets above the tiny fore
head and the little hands are helpless
lnow. The childish prattle that once
echoed through the house is silent ane
the moan of the sufferer breaks the the
stiffness of the hour. Step softly baby''
diving. Oh, the gloom and anguish o
coming death! The clock ticks louder
the whispers grow more and more sub
dued md the light that comes IL
throus h the closed shutters casts
spectral shadow on the wall. The pa
rents stand with silent grief about tn
bedside of their dying child, watching
with yearning love gnd breaking heart
, the ewes grow dim in death. Shorte
and shorter grows each breath until
last-baby is dead.
. Gather up the toys scattered her
n and there about the room-all useles
now, for baby is dead. Empty cradle
broken playthings, tiny dresses, llttl
J. shoes-great monuments of grief-mus
a be put away, for baby is no more
q Think of the suffering to those Wh
watch for little face pressed agalns
e the window pane and see it not; VIII
= listen for the patter of little feet an
,e the lisp of childish words and hear onl
the echo of falling clods into new
made grave. Think of empty arm
that clasp no loved one, of fearful ey'
that look in vain, and aching hear
that long for dear, familiar face, al
J. YOU will understand the grief al
b. silence of the tomb.
II, All! those waxen, folded hands, II
y still heart so often pressed in love
l. our own. that sweet unmovlng alaba
is ter face-who has not mourned becau
III their little ones are not! Only Il
he light of a little life, given and taken
love, has gone out, but the gre
IL shadows that rise from little gray
Sc rest dark and pall-like upon the hear
b. of those who miss the sunbeam.
e. times like these, when through t
:, dense darkness of the grave, we gro
~ for light, some outside help al
re STRENGTH we all must have or al
,st Above the narrow rim against viii
for we beat the wings of our imaginatlo
as there shine: the glorious light OF Il
mortality and Gods great love.
We softens every grief, and from eve
We crave rise lessons of faith and purl
of love and sympathy.
Over the banisters of Heaven
brown eyes peep and amidst the hyn
ose of choiring seraphs a baby's pratt
lIi, may be heard.