St. Tammany farmer. [volume] (Covington, La.) 1874-current, 1900-07-14
W. G. KENTZEL, Editor.

that met his eyes as he paused for an
instant at the door; it was q 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
children's portraits, little shoes upon
the floor, little stockings in the great,
wide workbasket, schoolbooks and
states on the desk by the window, all
typified her life, with its broad, un-
selfish, womanly interests, its loves
and its cares, its duties and its pleas
ures. Once again she listened to
Deaths pleadings. and as he looked
| upon her, he almost envied Life the
beauty he had written upon her face.
Youth and freshness were gone, spent
as generous giver does mere gold, in
loving service, glad to be the poorer;
but there was grace and loveliness 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; all 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 lovesome 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 have taken your children
from your arms, and they bloom there
You have seen all that Life imposes;
you have known weariness; you have
felt the thorns and briars along the
path. Life has not spared you labor OF
care. To you. and such as you, 1 come
as a deliverer; one who bestows rest
after long toll. All Life's burdens will
be lifted, and you will forever fold your
hands in eternal peace. Come with me,
you who should greet the coming of
friend who will give you Paradise"
But she looked up into his face, into
the passion-pure, marble-like 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
all 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, bu,
the full-rounded, mclciious accents OF
woman: go your way, Death. ]
know all that life means, all that love
gives and takes, and again will say.
after all these years, Paradise is moi
with you. Paradise is here, happiness
is here, for John is here!"
And Death trailed his ghostly gar
ments through the house and went
alone, with almost bitterness against
his brother Life, who could SO 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 all in half lights; mothers room
still, but no longer that 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 of
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 it
were no longer of children, but of
men and women. All was changed,
all the childish life was folded away,
hut the anxious ones as he passed
them looked with eyes that stirred
his memory, the fathomiess, ages-old
memory of Death, with a recollection
of two other faces-the child and the
woman, neither of whom would 60
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 half
chides friend who has tarried too
hong: "Why have you waited such a |
weary time to come for me? 1 have |
been watching and praying for you
oh, so long! and you let me linger."
And, as he gazed upon her out of the
depths of the past he remembered her,
although it was an old and worn face |
that was lifted so wistfully to his,
white and lined, framed in snowy |
hair, tired and grief-stricken, but the |
voice was the same, though all its vi
brant tones were stilled, that voice |
that always took on a softer measure |
at one name. So it was that when |
they found her, the men and woman |
who called her Mother, on her face |
was strange, sweet peace, and a
smile almost of triumph and much of
youth; for it came when she placed
her hand in that of Death, and said:
''Yes. will 60 with you to Paradise,
for John is there"
Instructed the Queen.
A hitherto unrecorded anecdote OF
the queen is the following, says the /