Fisherman & farmer. [volume] (Edenton, N.C.) 1887-19??, 1893-06-16

! is richer hued than the wine on the table.
! The kingdom has departed
| Belshazzar was no worse perhaps than hun
dreds OF people in Babylon, but his position
| slew him. Oh. be content with just sucd a
| position az God has placed you in 1t may
| not be said of US. He was great general
| or HE was honored chieftain, or He
| was mighty in worldly attachments" but this
| thing may be said of you and me, He was a
good citizen, a faithful Christian. friend OF
Jesus" And that in the last day will be the
| highest of all eulogi1Ds.
learn further from this subject that death
| comes TO the summer house. EgiOn did not
expect to die in that fine place. Amid all the
| flower leaves that drifted like snow into the
window in the tinkle and dash of the foun.
| tains In the sound of thousand leaves fut-
tering on one tree branch ; in the cool breeze
that came up to shake fever1ss trouble out OF
the kings locks. there was nothing that spake
of death but there he died In the winter,
when the snow is a shroud, and when the
| wind Is dirge, IT is easy to think or our
| morality, but when the weather is pleasant
and all our surroundings are agreeable how
difficult it is for to appreciate the truth
that we are mortal! And yet my text teaches
that death does sometimes come to the sum-
ner house.
He is blind and cannot see the leaves. He
Is deaf and cannot hear the fountains. Oh,
II death would ask US for victims, we could
point him to hundreds Of people who would
rejoice to have him come. Push back the
door of that howell. Look at that little child
cold and sick and hungry. It has never
| heard the name of God but in blasphemy
Parents intoxicated staggering around its
straw bed. Oh, death, there is 3 mark for
thee! Up with it into the light Before
| these little feet stumble on life's pathway give
them rest.
Here is an aged man. He has done his
work. He has done it giOriOUsly. Inc COM
panions of his youth are all gone, his chill
dren dead He longs to be at rest, and
YEARLY the days and the nights pass. He
says. Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly
Oh death, there is mark for thee Take
from him the st aft and give him the sceptre!
Up with him into the light. where ewes never
grow dim, and the hair whitens not through
the long years of eternity. All, death will
not do that. Death turns back from the
straw bed and from the aged man ready for
the skies and comes to the summer house.
What doest thou here thou bony, CHASTITY
monster, amid this waving grass and under
this sunlight sitting through the tree
branches? Children are at play. How quickly
their feet go ard their locks toss in the wind
Father and mother stand at the side of the
room looking Oh, enjoying their glee. It
does not seem possible that the wolf should
ever break into that fold and carry off a
lamb. Meanwhile an old archer stands look
ing through the thicket. He points his arrow
at the brightest Of the grOup-he is a sure
marksman-theb bow bends, the arrow speeds
Hush, now! The quick feet have stopped,
and the locks toss no more in the wind
Laughter has gone out Of the hall. Death
in the summer house
Here is a father in midlife. His coming
home at night is the signal for mirth. The
children rush to the door, and there are books
on the evening stand, and the hours pass
away on glad feet. There is nothing want
ing in that home. Religion is there and
sacrifices on the altar morning and night
You look in that household and say ST can
not think of anything happier. do not
really believe the world is so sad place as
some people describe it to be-" The scene
changes. Father is sick. The doors must
be kept shut: The deathwatch chirps dole
full y on the hearth. The children whisper
and walk softly where once they romped.
Passing the house late at night, you see the
quick glancing of lights from room to room.
1t is all over. Death in the summer house.
Here is an aged mother-aged, but not in
firm. You think you will have the Joy of car
ing for her wants a good while yet. AS she
goes rom house TO house. TO children and
grandchildren, her coming is dropping of
sunlight in the dwelling. Your children sea
her coming through the lane, and they cry,
marked up her face with many a deep
wrinkle and her back stoops with car
rying your burdens. Some days she is
very quiet. She says she is not
sick. but something tells you you
will not much longer have mother. She will
sit with you no longer at the table nor at the
hearth Her soul goes out so gently you do
not exactly know the moment of its going.
Fold the hands that have done many kind
0eSSes for you right over the heart that has
Oeat with love for you since before you were
oorn. Let the pilgrim rest. She is weary.
Death in the summer house!
Gather about US what we will of comfort
and luxury, when the pale messenger comes
ae does not stop to look at the architecture
Of the house before he comes in, nor entering
does he wait to examine the pictures we have
gathered on the wall, or bending over your
pillow he does not stop to see whether there
IS a color in the cheek or gentIeness in the
EYE, or intelligence in the brow. But what
Of that? Must we stand for ever mourning
among the graves of our dead, No No The
people in Bengal bring cages of birds to the
graves of their dead and then they open the
cages, and the birds go singing heavenward.
So would bring to the graves Of your dead
sll bright thoughts and congratulations and
stamp on the bottom of the grave, and 1t
breaks through into the light and glory Of
heaven.
The ancients used to think that the straits
entering the Red sea were very dangerous
places, as they supposed that every ship that
went through those straits would be de-
stroyed and they were in the habit of put
ting on weeds OF mourning for those who
| had gone on that voyage. though they
were actually dead. Do you know what they
| called those straits? They call them the
"Gate of Tears Oh, stand to-day at the
gate of tears through which many Of your
| loved ones have gone, and want to tell you
| that all are not shipwrecked that have gone
| through those straits into the great ocean
| stretching out beyond.
The sound that comes from that other