The Dawson news. (Dawson, Ga.) 1889-current, 1902-02-26
THE LATE q. M. HARRIS.
Loving Tribute to His Memory
by a Daughter.
The warfare is over. his task is done,

The warfare is over. his task is DONE
Life's battle is ended and Glory is Won
Death, that stern conquerer of life,
has again crossed our threshold, and
this time laid his icy hold on our faith
err. the true and substantial prop of
the home. How our hopes were shat
tered when on TIE 18th day of Deem
Der, 1901, we knelt by the bedside of
our loved one and watched the ebbing
tide of life as it silently and calmy
bore his spirit to the eternal realms
of peace. Too weak to utter words of
last farewell, his eyes told us that
he knew his own family. Almost we
could hear the angel whispers and the
words, "well done. The heavenly
smile that rested on his wasted feat
ures, the calm serenity and the look
of perfect rest were evidences that his
soul is resting from his labors. How
peaceful and happy he looked in his
last sleep-the sweet, deep sleep that
knows no awakening When the
summons came he was glad to bid fare
we'll to the night that vas past and to
welcome with joy and singing the
eternal day, whose rising shall know
no sunset. The world is better
tor his having lived: for he demon
strated by his life the truth of the
gospel of Jesus, Chow 5lest the right
eous when he dies. Truly the grass
withereth, the flower fadeth, as one
by one the petals from a beautiful
flower drop and are scattered hither
and thither, till nothing is left save
he black, dead stalk. So it is with
our family, small but precious. The
chain was broken, the links are drop
ping slowly but surely. Life at its
best may be compared to the growth
of one short year. In the spring like
grass it springs up and hourisheth.
If by chance it withstands the haZy
days of spring, merging into summer.
the time when we lay aside childish
things and view the future through
the lenses of young manhood and young
womanhood, brave successfully the
heat of summer, the middle life, in au-
tumn the blades turn yellow and I'M
mistakably we see the signs of the
approaching end. But the few decay
ing blades that are left, the early
frosts of winter cut down suddenly and
we see them no more.
Only fifty-six years old, my father
died il the autumn of his life.
When hope seems brightest our
fondest illusions are so quickly cut
short by the clipping of a tender thread
of life, the summons come home. So
good, so generous, so true; pure and
holy life was his, life worthy of emu
lation. The fountain of his kindness
was never exhausted. A christian
from the depths of his soul, his church |
had no more faithful worker and fol- |
lower than he. In the home his true
nature asserted itself. Always kind, |
sympathetic and self-sacriticing,h he did |
unto others as he would have others do |
unto him. How tenderly, how earn
estly he prayed for divine help. All !
during his long illness he leaned |
wholly and entirely on Him who is
able to save and whose many promises |
fell sweet on his ears. We loved him, |
we miss him, We long for the sight of
his dear face, the sound of his voice |
and that familiar tread. But would |
we call him back? Could we be so
selfish? What a GLORIOUS thought that
while we suffer he is happy. We bear
our daily cross of sin and sorrow; he
wears crown of Joy. We must try to
fulfill the promise we made when he
looked into our faces and said, "Meet
me in heaven" Yes, there is one
more star to light our way heaven
ward; one more invisible hand to
guide our faltering steps.
HIS DAUGHTER.