Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1899-01-23

hall Death in the su11mer housed
Here is father in midlife. His com
ing 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 wanting in that
home. Religion is there and sacrifices
on the altar morning and night. You
look in that household and say: II 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 death
watch chirps dolefully on the hearth.
The children whisper and walk softly
where once they romped Passing the
house at night, you see the quick glanc-
ing of lights from room to room. 1t is
all over. Death in the summer housed
Here is an aged mother-aged, but
not infirm. You think you will have
the joy OF caring for her wants a good
while yet. AS she goes from house to
house, to children and grandchildren,
her coming is dropping Of sunlight in
the dwelling Your children see her
coming through the lane, and they cry,
Grandmother s comet" Care for you
has marked up her face with many a
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 viii not
much longer have a 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 mo-
ment of it's going Fold the hands tina
have done SO many kindnesses for you
right over the heart that has beat with
love toward you since before you were
born. Let the pilgrim rest. She is
weary. Death in the summer housed
Gather about US what we will of COM
fort and luxury. When the pale mes
senger comes, he 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 color in the cheek, or
gentleness in the eye, or intelligence in
the brow. But what of that? Must we
stand forever mourning among the
graves of our dead? Mol Mol The peo-
pie 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 l would bring to the
graves of your dead all bright thoughts
and congratulations and bid them sing
of victory and redemption. 1 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 Red sea
were very dangerous places, and they
supposed that every ship that went
through those straits would be destroy
ed, and they were in the habit of put
ting on weeds of mourning for those
who had gone on that voyage, as though
they were actually dead. Do you know
what they called those straits? They
called them the ''Gate of Tears. - I
stand at the gate of tears through which
many of your loved ones have gone, and
I want to tell you that all are not ship
wrecked 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 departed are not dead. We
are the dead-we who toll, we who
weep, we who sin-we are the dead.
How my heart aches for human sorrowl
This sound of breaking hearts that I
hear all about mel This last look of
faces that never will brighten againl
This last kiss of lips that never will
speak againl This widowhood and or
phanage Oh, when will the day of sor-
row be gonel
After the sharpest winter the spring
dismounts from the shoulder of south
ern gale and puts it's warm hand upon
the earth, and in it's palm there comes
the grass, and there come the flowers,
and God reads over the poetry of bird
and brook and bloom and pronounces it
very good. What, my friends, if every
winter had not it's spring and every
night it's day, and every gloom it's glow,
and every bitter now its sweet hereaft-
erl IF you have been on the sea, you
know, as the ship passes in the night
there is a phosphorescent track left be-
hind it, and as the waters roll up they
toss with unimaginable splendor. Well,
across this great ocean of human trouble
Jesus walks. Oh, that in the phos-
phorescent track of his feet we might
all follow and be illumined.
There was a gentleman in rail car
who saw in that same car three passen-
gers of very different circumstances.
The first was maniac. He was care
fully guarded by his attendants. His
mind, like ship dismasted, was beat
ing against dark, desolate coast, from
which no help could come. The train
stopped, and the man was taken out
into the asylum, to waste away perhaps
through years Of gloom. The second
passenger was a culprit. The outraged
low had saiza1 on him Az tho cars