Year: 1870

The following is beautiful and pathetic.
Who the auther is we know not, but suspect
the extract is from some book.


Hush she is dying The sunlight streams
in through the pale glass window, the room is
fragrant with Southern fOwers-arge, milk
white African lilies, roses a nightingale would
stop to worship, caps, jessamnes and camelias
with their large glossy leaves


Through the open easement steals the faint
musical unge of playing fountains, the light
tempered pleasantly by rose colored curtains
of satin, kindles up gorgeous oil paintings
with halo bright as a rainbow.


1t is as if tresher sunshine were falling earth
ward on the bower Of beauty.


The canary sings in his guided cage; her
canary; and the mocking bird raises her clear
notes on the perfumod air
Why DO you cnch your hands until the
nails draw the rich, rosy blood through the
thin quivering skin? Why do you grind your
teeth together and hiss that one word hush?
1t is a beautiful home | m sure, that lady with
| her hands upon her bosom is as fair as any
dream vision of the painter.


Surely nothing could be purer than that
broad, high brow; nothing brighter than those
curls.


And she loves you, too. All yes, any one
can read that in those deep violet eyes raised
so tenderly on your own. All that is it, your
young wife loves you.


She linked to yours the existence of an an
gel when she knet beside you at the marriage
and placed her hand in yours.


For twelve golden summer months an an
gel has worked or sat by your side, or slept on
your bosom.


Yea know it No mortal women ever made


your heart bow before purity 20 divine.


NO earthly emblem ever filled your SOU


with tho glory beyond the stars; no earthly


smile ever shown unchangngly above all moi


some things we earth-worms call care ant


trouble She is an angel, and other angle
have been singing TO her in the pleasant JUNE
time.


Hush you say. You can't shut the anthem


notes Of heaven from the unSealed ears longer
hither swells the hymns of ssraphs, bright
er grows the smile on the young wife s lips.
She whispers Dearest, I'm almost home.
am going TO ask God to bless you But yol
, cannot hear it-you turn away, and the bi!
, tears gather in the violet eyes
You hold her there on your bosom all night
are you tired? But yeu can't answer. Closer
i closer you clasp the light, fair figure, painful
a y you press your lips to the cold brow-Car


rie is dead


What is it to you that the sun shines S


brightly what that its cheerful rays fall i
y the broad lands-ou lands? What is it no'
n that she walks on them no more? And wha
: = is death her death? Few people knew her
> no wise president can be chosen to fill he
. place no nation will raise monument to he
\ but she was yours-yours, all
q No, yours and God :; and your years Of jo
y, over; She rests on His bosom now, in HEAVIER
= They have dug grave for her. Sprin
= flowers will brighten over it, and the gree


grass smiles with daisies and violets. You s
h there and sigh and pray, and ask God if yor
" " too, may come home. And no answer con
A. ing, your heart raises up in bitterness ar
= with the bold, wicked words upon your tOngu
y. you pause, for your guardian angel looks dow
,r from heaven and whispers, Hush y