Arizona republican., 1898-04-10
PAREPA ROSA'S EASTER.

''Myra, this is perfect rest!" ex- claimed Parepa. We shall be quite alone for four hours"
 "Yes, four long hours. There will be no rehearsals; nobody else knows where you are"
 Parepa laughed merrily at the idea, she had sung at one of our large New York churches, and I had insisted upon her going home with me, says a writer in the New York Mail and Express. We were friends in Italy, and SO she readily consented. But by noon the sky was overcast and gray. Down came the snow, whitening streets and roofs. We hurried home and sat close to the fire for an afternoons enjoy ment
 There was sharp rap at the door, and note was thrust in. It read:
 My Dear Friend: Can you come? Annie has gone. She said you would be sure to come to her funeral. She spoke of you to the last She will be buried at Az
 "Oh, dear! I must go," said I. but you sit by the fire and rest I'll be at home in two hours. And so, poor Annie has gone!"
 "Tell me about it, Myra," said Pa repa, flor I am going with you;" and, after I had told the story, she threw l on her heavy cloak, wound her long, white woolen scarf about her throat. drew on her gloves. and we set out to- gether in the wild Easter storm. The driving storm made us late, and we found the hard working friends sitting stiff1y against the walls. A minister came, brought as mere matter of formality by the undertaken. Icier than the pitiless storm without, colder than the grave were his words. He read few words from the Bible, warned the bereaved mother against rebellion at the divine decrees," made a brief prayer and was gone. The undertaken looked at the great singer and me, as if to say, ''It's time to go.'
 Without word Parepa rose and walked to the head of the coffin. She laid her white scarf on an empty chair, threw her cloak back from her shoul- ders, where it fell in long, soft black lines from her noble figure, like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the cold forehead. passed it tenderly over the wasted. delicate face, looked down at the dead girl moment, removed some Easter lilies I had brought, from the stained box to the thin fingers, and with il- lumined eyes sang the glorious mel ody:
 Angels, ever bright and fair,
 Take, oh, take her to thy care"
 Her voice rose and fell in all its richness and power and beauty and pity. She looked above the dingy room and the tired faces of men and women, the hard hands and the strug- gling hearts. She threw back her head and sang till the choirs of Para disc must have paused to listen to the Easter music of that day.
 She passed her hands caressingly over the girls soft, dark hair, and sang on-and on:
 Take, oh, take her to thy care.'' The mothers face grew rapt and white. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close to the wooden trestles. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs breaking forth. She prayed aloud that God would bless the angel singing for Annle- l led her back to her seat as the last grand notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over all earthly pain and sorrow.
 thought that no queen ever went to her grave with greater ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toll, committed to the care of the angels.
 That night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause