The Maryville times. (Maryville, Tenn.) 1884-1944, 1899-02-18


the summer house!
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
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, you see the
quick glancing of lights from room 10
room. Ii is all over! Death in the sum-
mer house!
Here is an aged mother-aged, but
not infirm. 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:
"Grandmother's come!" 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 will not
much longer have mother. She will
sit with you no more at the table nor a t
the hearth. Her soul goes out so gently
you do not exactly know the moment
of its going. Fold the hands that 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 house!
Gather about us what we will of COM
fort and luxury. When the pale messen-
ger comes he does mot stop to look at
the architecture of the house before he
comes in, nor, entering, does he wait
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? 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 all bright
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
led sea were very dangerous places,
and they supposed that every ship that
went through those straits would be
destroyed, and they were in the habit
of putting on weeds of mourning for
those who had gene on that voyage, as
though they were actually dead. Do
you know what they called those
straits? They called them the Gate
of Tears" 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 gopc
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 are the dead
we who toll, we who weep, we who sin
we are the dead. How my heart aches
ing hearts that hear all about me, this
last look of faces that never will
brighten again, this last kiss of lips that
never will speak again, this widowhood
and orphanage! Oh, when will the day
of sorrow be gone!
After the sharpest winter the spring
dismounts from the shoulder of south.
ern gale and puts its warm hand upon
the earth, and in its palm there comes
the grass, and there come the flowers,
and God reads over the poetry of bird
and brook and bloom and pronouncesi it
very good. What, my friends, ii every
winter had not its spring, and every
night its day, and every gloom its glow,
and every bitter now its sweet here
after! If you have been on the sea,
you know, as the ship passes in the
night, there is phosphorescent track
left behind it, and as the waters roll
up they toss with unimaginable splen
dor. Well, across this great ocean OF
human trouble Jesus walks. Oh, that
in the phosphorescent track of His feet
we might all follow and be illumined!
There was a gentleman in rail car
who saw in that sa me 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 culprit. The outraged
law had seized on him. AS the cars