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Ottis Conway
Obituary for
Ottis Conway
Submitted by: Debby Cook

The Mulhall Enterprise
Mulhall, Logan Co., O.T. Saturday, July 20, 1895

Died:-- June 24, 1895, Ottis.-infant son of Lafe and Sarah Conway, aged three months and eleven days. It is only the bud removed before the wintry blasts of trouble. "Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." The funeral was preached by Elder J.W. Black.

The Mulhall Enterprise
Mulhall, Logan Co., O.T. Saturday August 3, 1895

Died - On June 24th, 1895, Ottis, infant son of Mr. & Mrs. G.L. Conaway aged three months and eleven days.
This was an unusually bright and beautiful babe for its age. It was indeed the flower of the family; but the Dark Angel is pitiless. He reaps the boarded grain at a breath and the flowers between!
There are those who in trying to comfort the mourning mother say, "It is not as if it had been older." But, Oh! Only a mother thus bereaved knows the appealing helplessness of the little form - "bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh." - its very helplessness seeming to our sign to need the mother care more.
O, for the eye of faith to see that He was is more tender than mothers are, folds the darling in a more enduring love than ours, and on the Resurrection morn will give back our jewels, -- shining with a radiance our mortal sight hath never beheld nor even could endure. And that our most careful earthful love could never guard and protect our loved ones so the beloved Shepherd guards them now.
In trying to comfort the poor mother and excuse her grief, who, like Rachel of old feels uncomforted, the following lines were suggested as an index to her feelings - and possibly a thought of comfort in them for yer.---

The Tender Branch

It was not from the ripen'd cluster
The "Reaper" sever'd late,
In the prime of its luscious fullness,
With strength and joy elate;

But a little, clinging tendril,
(So tender, -- and dainty too,)
That clasped and clung to its parent,
As the Reaper's blade went through.

For, sever it thus so early,
With never so sharp a thurst,
Some of its twining tendrils,
Still cling! As they turn to dust.

And the parent vine thus sever'd
So rudely from its tender coil,
Bleeds where the blade went through it
As the pulsing veins recoil.

So tender His touch, and healing
We blow to His wisdom true,
Which - hath planted the branching tendril
In the garden of God anew!


Mrs. Ella G. Carpenter

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