Yes, "Baby is dead," and silently they prepare it for the cheerless
tomb. The golden tresses they so oft have wound lovingly over their
fingers, are gently smoothed for the last time, while one fairy curl
is severed and placed next the mother's heart; oft will she gaze
upon it, as the months of her sorrow come and go, and weep over the
memory of her departed treasure.
Sadly the little form is robed in the tiny shroud, and the dimpled
hands crossed sweetly over the pulseless bosom. Gently he is placed
in the coffin--it is a harder bed than he was wont to rest on, but
he will feel it not. With unutterable anguish they follow him to the
dark, cold grave; strange hands lower him into its gloomy depths,
and the clods fall heavily upon the coffin. Each one seems to sink
with laden weight into their hearts. It is filled up now, and the
green turf covers the late smiling cherub, and the mourners turn
sadly away. Oh! how dark the world seems now, which was so full of
sunshine a little while ago! How desolate their once joyous house!
"Baby is dead--our idol is gone," is the language of their hearts.
Yes, stricken ones, your sunbeam is gone; but where? You have buried
the beauteous casket beneath the green sods of the valley; but the
precious jewel it contained is beaming brightly in the coronal of
God.
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