The Bossier banner. [volume] (Bellevue, Bossier Parish, La.) 1859-1952, 1899-03-02
this waving grass and upd-r this sun-
light sitting through tae tree
bra nchesP Children are nj Olay. How

light sitting through tae tree
branches? Children are at play. How
quickly their feet go aud their locks
toss III the wind. Father and mother
stand at the side of the room looking
on, enjoying their glee. 1t does not
seem possible that the wolf should ever
break into that fold and carry of
lamb. Meanwhile an old archer stands
looking through the thicket. He points
his arrow at the brightest OF the group
he is sure marksman-the bow
bends. the arrow speeds! Hush now.
The quick feet have stopped and the
locks toss no more in the wind. Laughs
ter has gone out of the hall. Death in
the summer house!
Here is father in midlife. His CONE
ing home at night is the signal for
m;rth. The children rush to the door,
aud there are books on the evening
stand, and the hours pass away on glad
feet. There is nothing wanting in that
home. Religion is there and sacrifices
on the altar morning and night. You
look in that household and say: II can
rot think of anything happier. lido
not really believe the world is SO sad
a place as some people describe II 10
be-" The scene changes. Father Is
sick. The doors must be kept shut.
The deathwatch chirps dolefully on the
hearth. The children whisper and walk
softly where once they romped. Pass,
ing the house late at night. yon see the
quick glancing of lights from room 70
room. 1t is all over! Death in the sum
mer house!
Here is an aged mother-aged. but
not intirm. You think you will have the
JOY of caring for her wants good while
yet. As she goes from house to house.
to children and grandchildren. her COM
ing is dropping Of sunlight in the
dwelling. Your children see her COM
ing through the lane, and they cry:
"Grandmoih hers come!" Care for you
has marked up her face with many
deep wrinkle, and her back stoops with
carrying your burdens. Some day 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 more 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 80 many kindnesses for yon right
over the heart that has beat with love
toward you since before you were born.
Let the pilgrim rest. She y weary.
Death in the summer house!
Gather about US what we will OF COM
fort and luxury. When the pale mcssen-
ger comes he does not stop to look at
the architecture Of the house before hs
comes in, nor. entering, does he wall
1 to examine the pictures we have gath
cred on the wall, or, bending over your
pillow, he does not stop to see whether
there is color in the cheek or gentle
ness in the eye or intelligence in the
brow. But what of that? Must we
stand forever mourning among the
graves of our dead? Mol No! The
people in Bengal bring cages Of birds
to the graves of their dead. and then
they open the cages, and the birds 80
singing heavenward. So would bring
to the graves of your dead all Upright
thoughts and congratulations and bid
them sing of victory and redemption.
stamp on the bottom Of the grave, and
it breaks through into the light and
the glory of Heaven. The ancients used
to think that the straits entering the
Ted sea were very dangerous places.
and they supposed that every ship that
went through those straits would bel
destroyed. and they were in the habitl
of putting on weeds Of mourning for
those who had gone on that voyage, n
though they were actually dead. Do
you know what they called those
straits? They called them the Gate
.f Tears" I stand 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 shore
/ on still nights when we are wrapped
= | in prayer makes me think that the de.
! parted are not dead. We IRE the dead
: we who toll. we who weep. we who Sin
I'VE are the dead. low my heart ache.
: for human sorrQw-this sound Of break
i. ing hearts that hear all about me, thil
/, last look OF faces that never viii
, brighten again, this last kiss Of lips tha
never will speak again, this widowhcot
and orphanage! Oh. when will the da.
! Of sorrow be gone!
r After the sharpest winter the sprtni
!. dismounts from the shoulder OF . south
y crn gale and puts its warm hand upol
! the earth. and in its palm there come
the grass, and there come the flower
- and God reads over the poetry Of bir
!. and brook and bloom and pronounces
i very good. What, my friends. II ever
= winter had not its spring, and ever
,e night its day. and every gloom its glow
Il and every bitter now its sweet herr
after! II you have been on the SCI
;s you know. as the ship passes IN u
!, night, there is phosphorcscent trac
= left behind IT, and as the waters ro
. :. up they toss with unimaginable splel
~ dor. Well. across this great ocean !,
= = b, man trouble Jesus walks. Oh. tb