The Spanish Fork press. [volume] (Spanish Fork, Utah) 1902-current, 1906-04-26

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Presently the lids futtered and then
slowly Enclosed. The blue eyes looked
up, for the first time in many days, with
a perfect recognition into the scanned,
agonlzed old face bending over them.
Uncle Bob"
what Is 1t, leetle Moss?" answered
the broken old voice.
Uncle Bob, are you crying?" touch
ing with his wan little hand the withered
cheek over which the uncomfortable
tears were flowing.
mo, no, deed ain, leetle Moss!"
surreptitiously wiping them away with,
his bandana handkerchief, "'deed | ain ,
darlin': what Unc' Bob gwine cry
'bout?" in futile attempt at loving de-
ception. seeing the panied look on thu
fair little features.
Poor Uncle Bob with plying ten
derness, still softly stroking the with.
cred cheek
Honey" sobbed Uncle Bob, don
study bout me. Don grebe bout ole
unc' Bob He glib his life ter mex you
des one minute easy an 'dout pain"
81 am easy, Uncle Bob. and happy"
The unearthly sweetness of the smile
broke down Uncle Bob's last little rem
nant of self-control, and he wept on, I'M
restraine1ly, for few minutes.
The little boys eyes wandered round
the room, and rested, in their pathetic
searching, on the faces of Lucy and Tom
poor Lucy's, worn and haggard from
nights of watching and days of unrest,
and Toms. whose breaking heart was
plainly visible in the havoc which the
past days had indelibly imprinted
thereon.
The old grandmother, bedridden AMI
Frustrated under the impending calam-
ity was alone. save for her devoted and
faithful attendant, with her sorrow and
her God.
Tom bent over and tenderly wiped the
damp brow and pushed back the fair
clustering curls of the child. He gave
cold little hand to brother and sister
and, in response to the heroism of poor
Lucy's brave and loving smile, sighed
contentedly. as he turned his little head
over on the pillow.
Jerusalem, the Golden evening
service was going on in the church, and
the words were borne plainly on the
absolute stiffness of the air:
81 know not, oh. l know not
What joys await us there.
What radiancy of glory,
What bliss beyond compare"
Uncle Bob's tears had ceased to flow;
Lucy and Tom sat motionless, their
faces in shadow.
Tell me-about it-Uncle Bob"
gasped the weak little voice, as the last
strain died away-"Jerusalem - the
Golden"
Uncle Bob leaned eagerly forward, all
traces of tears carefully wiped away,
that no selfish display of grief disturb
the serenity of the departing soul
'Leetle Moss" he whispered in his
broken, quaverlng voice. "dar whar yoi
gwine, de streets is gol'en, an de flow
ers Is bloomin', an de libin' waters IL
flown froo de green fiel's OBJ Pah disc!
oh! leetle Moss you an me-po' ole Unc'
Bob-hab talk heap bout dat happy
Ian, but Unc' Bob ain neber spec dat
you gwine go haid OBJ him ter de sweet
an blessed country"
Flowers" murmured the little one,
drowsily, gold flowers. Will there
be any roses-like Lucy's?"
LEX Miss Lucy's!" in tender assur-
ance. ''Leetle Moss. der fiow'rs up in
Pah disc, DIES es much puttier'n Miss
Lucy's es day is dan night! Ain dey,
Miss Lucy?"
Eyes, yes. Uncle Bob. oh, tell him
yes!" wept the girl
AN dey DIES de putties' streets you
cher is see, an you gwine meet all de
folks done gone befo', honey. An tell
EN- Unc' Bob gwine be long soon!
Soon!" in an ecstasy OF longing.
A smile of surprising beauty, and
full of the tenderness of heavenly
assurance, lit up the little pallid face
Sing, Uncle Bob" he said, in all
the simplicity of his babyhood, when
the melody of that tremulous old voice
was the sound that nightly rocked his
soul to sleep
"Yas. leetle Moss. Unc' Bob gwine
sing" clearing his throat and putting
forth every effort of his bursting heart
On the quivering air there fell the
strains of voice, old cracked, worn.
strained with the terrible strain of the
coming wrench, yet sweet with all the
memories of his little life, to the dying
boy:
~ want ter be err an-gul
An wild de an-guls stan,
Err crown ah-pawn my foh-haid,
An er harp widn my hand -
What dat you sayin', leetle Moss"
bending down low over the parting
lips.
rs | gwine be er white angul? Oh.
Gawd hab mussyi"-wringing his
hands in indescribable agony-"What
! gwine say? Glib me de right wohds
to use, Marse Jesus! Leetle Moss! |
gwine be er black angul,-er Jet black
soul! So dat you des boun reco'nize
Unc' Bob de minute you set eyes on
him-dat de truf, Lawd!" raising
streaming eyes of supreme renuncia-
ton to heaven.
Uncle Bob" and the little voice was
weak and far When-I get
Ia