The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1900-08-22

&oice even and sweet, for she said: mo,
will not go with you; Paradise Ia
here"
1t was noon, a still summer noon
when Death came again, meeting, as
he glded through the solemn quiet Of
the waiting, praying, desolate home,
man whose face was as pale and set as
Deaths own; whose eyes were heavy
with unshed tears; children with
strange grief upon their hearts But
needless, IMPLYING Death passed them
by, and went once again for the one
who was brought into the shadow of
his wing. But it was different scene
that met his eyes as he paused for an
instant at the door; 1t was mothers
room now, wide and spacious. Over the
mantel the pictured face of man,
scholarly face, pure of outline and di-
rect and firm of expression, seemed to
dominate the room, and the groups OF
ehildrens portraits, little shoes upon
the floor, little stockings in the great,
wide workbasket, schoolbooks and
states on the desk by the window, all
typifed her life, with it's broad, I'M
selfish, womanly interests, its loves
and its cares, its duties and its pleas
ur~s. Once again she listened to
Deaths pleadings, and rs he looked
upon her, he almost envied Life the
beauty he had W itten upon her face.
Youth and freshness were gone, spent
as a generous giver does mere gold, in
y 10 ha
but there was grace and loneliness pass
ing that of form or color in the quiet,
Madonna-like eyes, the thoughtful
brow, the mouth kept sweet and mel
low by sunshine and rain, the words
of love and the grooming Of cradle
songs; ell was there, all the Life from
which he had warned her-tears and
laughter, moments of joy, hours Of
sorrow and grief, years of sweet, calm,
even-paced content, hope, patience,
anxiety, realization-the story was all
written there, and it was gain, not loss;
beauty, strength and all lonesome wom-
anliness, but Death despaired not, even
though he saw more of happiness than
of sorrow.
"Now you are ready to come with me
to Paradise; you who have known grief
and loss, for 1 have taken your children
from your arms, and they bloom there.
You have seen all that Life imposes;
you have known WEAKNESS; you have
felt the thorns and briars along the
path. Life has not spared you labor or
care. To you, and such as you, l come
as q deliverer; one who bestows rest
after long toll. All Lies burdens will
be lifted, and you will forever fold your
hands in eternal peace. Come with me,
you who should greet the coming of a
friend who will give you Paradise"
But she looked up into his face, into
the passion-pure, marble-lil1e features
of Death, and, as the glow of the
Northern Lights fushes into roseate
hue even fields of ice and snow, so the
face Of Death became illumined with
ell but human beauty and expression,
as she said, her voice not the timid,
faltering tones Of the blushful maid
who had once answered his plea, but
the full-rounded, melodious accents Of
a woman, go your way, Death. ]
know all that life means, oil that love
gives and takes, and again will say,
after all these years, Paradise Is not
with you. Paradise is here, happiness
Ii here, for John is herel"
And Death trailed his ghostly gar
ments through the house and went
alone, with almost bitterness against
his brother Life, who could 80 hold
out and SO charm. When she walked
she said, as one who had routed and
conquered foe; "What does he know
OF Paradise? Paradise Is here, for
you, my beloved, are here"
Evening shadows were gathering
when Death came again. The room
was ell in half lights; a mothers room
still, but no longer thai happy mother
OF little children. No little shoes
upon the floor, no little stockings in
the work basket; the low rocker
where so many lullabies had been
sung was gone; the little pile Oh
school books and states was put away;
the lessons to be learned in mothers
room. were not to be conned from
books, or written upon states. The
mans face still looked down from the
mantel, but the pictures around II
were no longer of children, but Oh
men and women. All was changed
all the childish life was folded away
but the anxious ones as he passed
them looked with eyes that stirred
his memory, the fathomless, ages-old
memory Of Death, with n recollection
of two other faces-the child and the
woman, neither of whom would &c
with him in these buried years.
But now he had scarcely paused by
her side when she said to him as one
who greets and welcomes and halt
chides a friend who has tarried toe
long: "Why have you waited such q
weary time to come for mef I have
been watching and praying for you
oh. SO longl and you let me linger'
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