`MURDOCK, LOVE 'N TANGLE
Tangle, the little eight-year-old daughter of the editor, was taken sick on Sunday last, and at this writing, all hopes of her recovery have been given up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little "Love 'en Tangle," Col. and Mrs. Murdock's household pet, we regret to say, is dangerously ill. She is eight years old and a bright and lovely little treasure.---Beacon
(Wichita Eagle ~ February 22, 1883
DEATH SWALLOWED UP IN LIFE
The little daughter of Mr. and Mrs. M. M. Murdock, died on Sunday last at ten o'clock, just one week from the day she was taken sick. The Sunday before, she attended Sabbath school. Soon after she got home she was taken very sick. So violently so that hardly a hope from that time on was entertained of her recovery. She had been ailing for some weeks before and Sunday morning her father said to us with a sad voice, that he feared he could not keep her long. She was losing, he said, the brightness and vivacity which she had always possessed so much of. Her disease was spinal meningitis, and the week preceding her demise was one of terrible suffering. This, probably, more than her death, wrung the hearts of her parents, who we believe they have the sure and abiding faith that their little daughter sprang from their arms into angelic arms in her own personality and in her own human form, because the true form belongs to the soul and not to the body. Her material garments have been been laid away never again to be used, for never again will they become necessary. This little child is not dead, it is more than ever alive, instinct with the fulness of life, and that more perfect life has its more perfect form. There is no life, there can be none, separate from form, and the spiritual body is the real and truly and only human form. Heaven is within and no afar off in some remote sphere. It only requires the opening of the spiritual sight to see its glories all around us. There is no such thing as death---there is only change of form. When the butterfly emerges from its grubstake, the chick from its shell, the child from its mother's womb, there is a change of form, a laying aside of garments never again to be needed, and analogously this is just what occurs in death so called. There is no cessation of life in its substance and in its form. When a man is in natural sleep, the outer world is to him as if it were not, but when he wakes it seems to be the most substantial of all things. When a man awakes from intellectual sleep he sees new forces, power, beauties--he awakes to the fact of the existence of an universe, whereas before he saw only his own valley or hamlet. The child in this life is continually, as it grows, opening its real eyes upon new worlds more substantial and more glorious than its young mind before dreamed of or conceived possible. The grub sees its fellow grub dying, writhing in pain and anguish, but the butterfly sees its fellow-being born, awakening to a higher consciousness and a more beautiful life. So while we stand around, with tear ladened hearts, the bed of pain and death and apparent annihilation, the angel men and women stand around the cradle of the higher life. Our sad evening time is to them the glorious dawn presaging the full day.
God is the only source and fountain of life. Lifestreams from Him as the rays from the sun as the rivulets from the fountain. There is a constant influx from Him into all recipient forms, in Heaven, in Hell, and on earth. This stream may be and is perverted, but it can never stop flowing, it can never be cut out for one moment. The very existence of God depends upon its flowing and its reception. The life of God radiates, validates the life of all creation. God is life and life cannot create death, therefore, there is no death. Be not, therefore, cast down. For "verily their angels do behold the face of My Father which is in Heaven."
The funeral services were held at the residence. Many friends were present to participate in the last parting and to express their deep sympathy with the sorrowing family. A most affecting spectacle was to see her little class and school mates pressing around the bier, to take a last loving look at the dear one who had passed away from their sight. In the school room, they had decorated her vacant seat with flowers. There were many affecting incidents connected with her sickness. She recalled, frequently with startling vividness, incidents of her home and school life, and would repeat with accuracy lessons and verses that she had learned long before. What was wonderful for a child of her age, she seemed to feel a presentiment that she was going to die. She said, "We are all sick. Mamma is sick, the baby is sick and I'm sick. One of us will have to die. I don't want mamma to die, nor the baby to die. I expect I must die," and then when she thought of the baby, of mamma and papa, and sister and brother, she instinctively drew back from the bright angel of death, for surely the messenger is bright that comes for such innocent ones.
Wichita Weekly Beacon ~ Wednesday ~ February 28, 1883
Tangle, the little eight-year-old daughter of the editor, was taken sick on Sunday last, and at this writing, all hopes of her recovery have been given up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little "Love 'en Tangle," Col. and Mrs. Murdock's household pet, we regret to say, is dangerously ill. She is eight years old and a bright and lovely little treasure.---Beacon
(Wichita Eagle ~ February 22, 1883
DEATH SWALLOWED UP IN LIFE
The little daughter of Mr. and Mrs. M. M. Murdock, died on Sunday last at ten o'clock, just one week from the day she was taken sick. The Sunday before, she attended Sabbath school. Soon after she got home she was taken very sick. So violently so that hardly a hope from that time on was entertained of her recovery. She had been ailing for some weeks before and Sunday morning her father said to us with a sad voice, that he feared he could not keep her long. She was losing, he said, the brightness and vivacity which she had always possessed so much of. Her disease was spinal meningitis, and the week preceding her demise was one of terrible suffering. This, probably, more than her death, wrung the hearts of her parents, who we believe they have the sure and abiding faith that their little daughter sprang from their arms into angelic arms in her own personality and in her own human form, because the true form belongs to the soul and not to the body. Her material garments have been been laid away never again to be used, for never again will they become necessary. This little child is not dead, it is more than ever alive, instinct with the fulness of life, and that more perfect life has its more perfect form. There is no life, there can be none, separate from form, and the spiritual body is the real and truly and only human form. Heaven is within and no afar off in some remote sphere. It only requires the opening of the spiritual sight to see its glories all around us. There is no such thing as death---there is only change of form. When the butterfly emerges from its grubstake, the chick from its shell, the child from its mother's womb, there is a change of form, a laying aside of garments never again to be needed, and analogously this is just what occurs in death so called. There is no cessation of life in its substance and in its form. When a man is in natural sleep, the outer world is to him as if it were not, but when he wakes it seems to be the most substantial of all things. When a man awakes from intellectual sleep he sees new forces, power, beauties--he awakes to the fact of the existence of an universe, whereas before he saw only his own valley or hamlet. The child in this life is continually, as it grows, opening its real eyes upon new worlds more substantial and more glorious than its young mind before dreamed of or conceived possible. The grub sees its fellow grub dying, writhing in pain and anguish, but the butterfly sees its fellow-being born, awakening to a higher consciousness and a more beautiful life. So while we stand around, with tear ladened hearts, the bed of pain and death and apparent annihilation, the angel men and women stand around the cradle of the higher life. Our sad evening time is to them the glorious dawn presaging the full day.
God is the only source and fountain of life. Lifestreams from Him as the rays from the sun as the rivulets from the fountain. There is a constant influx from Him into all recipient forms, in Heaven, in Hell, and on earth. This stream may be and is perverted, but it can never stop flowing, it can never be cut out for one moment. The very existence of God depends upon its flowing and its reception. The life of God radiates, validates the life of all creation. God is life and life cannot create death, therefore, there is no death. Be not, therefore, cast down. For "verily their angels do behold the face of My Father which is in Heaven."
The funeral services were held at the residence. Many friends were present to participate in the last parting and to express their deep sympathy with the sorrowing family. A most affecting spectacle was to see her little class and school mates pressing around the bier, to take a last loving look at the dear one who had passed away from their sight. In the school room, they had decorated her vacant seat with flowers. There were many affecting incidents connected with her sickness. She recalled, frequently with startling vividness, incidents of her home and school life, and would repeat with accuracy lessons and verses that she had learned long before. What was wonderful for a child of her age, she seemed to feel a presentiment that she was going to die. She said, "We are all sick. Mamma is sick, the baby is sick and I'm sick. One of us will have to die. I don't want mamma to die, nor the baby to die. I expect I must die," and then when she thought of the baby, of mamma and papa, and sister and brother, she instinctively drew back from the bright angel of death, for surely the messenger is bright that comes for such innocent ones.
Wichita Weekly Beacon ~ Wednesday ~ February 28, 1883
`MURDOCK, LOVE 'N TANGLE
Tangle, the little eight-year-old daughter of the editor, was taken sick on Sunday last, and at this writing, all hopes of her recovery have been given up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little "Love 'en Tangle," Col. and Mrs. Murdock's household pet, we regret to say, is dangerously ill. She is eight years old and a bright and lovely little treasure.---Beacon
(Wichita Eagle ~ February 22, 1883
DEATH SWALLOWED UP IN LIFE
The little daughter of Mr. and Mrs. M. M. Murdock, died on Sunday last at ten o'clock, just one week from the day she was taken sick. The Sunday before, she attended Sabbath school. Soon after she got home she was taken very sick. So violently so that hardly a hope from that time on was entertained of her recovery. She had been ailing for some weeks before and Sunday morning her father said to us with a sad voice, that he feared he could not keep her long. She was losing, he said, the brightness and vivacity which she had always possessed so much of. Her disease was spinal meningitis, and the week preceding her demise was one of terrible suffering. This, probably, more than her death, wrung the hearts of her parents, who we believe they have the sure and abiding faith that their little daughter sprang from their arms into angelic arms in her own personality and in her own human form, because the true form belongs to the soul and not to the body. Her material garments have been been laid away never again to be used, for never again will they become necessary. This little child is not dead, it is more than ever alive, instinct with the fulness of life, and that more perfect life has its more perfect form. There is no life, there can be none, separate from form, and the spiritual body is the real and truly and only human form. Heaven is within and no afar off in some remote sphere. It only requires the opening of the spiritual sight to see its glories all around us. There is no such thing as death---there is only change of form. When the butterfly emerges from its grubstake, the chick from its shell, the child from its mother's womb, there is a change of form, a laying aside of garments never again to be needed, and analogously this is just what occurs in death so called. There is no cessation of life in its substance and in its form. When a man is in natural sleep, the outer world is to him as if it were not, but when he wakes it seems to be the most substantial of all things. When a man awakes from intellectual sleep he sees new forces, power, beauties--he awakes to the fact of the existence of an universe, whereas before he saw only his own valley or hamlet. The child in this life is continually, as it grows, opening its real eyes upon new worlds more substantial and more glorious than its young mind before dreamed of or conceived possible. The grub sees its fellow grub dying, writhing in pain and anguish, but the butterfly sees its fellow-being born, awakening to a higher consciousness and a more beautiful life. So while we stand around, with tear ladened hearts, the bed of pain and death and apparent annihilation, the angel men and women stand around the cradle of the higher life. Our sad evening time is to them the glorious dawn presaging the full day.
God is the only source and fountain of life. Lifestreams from Him as the rays from the sun as the rivulets from the fountain. There is a constant influx from Him into all recipient forms, in Heaven, in Hell, and on earth. This stream may be and is perverted, but it can never stop flowing, it can never be cut out for one moment. The very existence of God depends upon its flowing and its reception. The life of God radiates, validates the life of all creation. God is life and life cannot create death, therefore, there is no death. Be not, therefore, cast down. For "verily their angels do behold the face of My Father which is in Heaven."
The funeral services were held at the residence. Many friends were present to participate in the last parting and to express their deep sympathy with the sorrowing family. A most affecting spectacle was to see her little class and school mates pressing around the bier, to take a last loving look at the dear one who had passed away from their sight. In the school room, they had decorated her vacant seat with flowers. There were many affecting incidents connected with her sickness. She recalled, frequently with startling vividness, incidents of her home and school life, and would repeat with accuracy lessons and verses that she had learned long before. What was wonderful for a child of her age, she seemed to feel a presentiment that she was going to die. She said, "We are all sick. Mamma is sick, the baby is sick and I'm sick. One of us will have to die. I don't want mamma to die, nor the baby to die. I expect I must die," and then when she thought of the baby, of mamma and papa, and sister and brother, she instinctively drew back from the bright angel of death, for surely the messenger is bright that comes for such innocent ones.
Wichita Weekly Beacon ~ Wednesday ~ February 28, 1883
Tangle, the little eight-year-old daughter of the editor, was taken sick on Sunday last, and at this writing, all hopes of her recovery have been given up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little "Love 'en Tangle," Col. and Mrs. Murdock's household pet, we regret to say, is dangerously ill. She is eight years old and a bright and lovely little treasure.---Beacon
(Wichita Eagle ~ February 22, 1883
DEATH SWALLOWED UP IN LIFE
The little daughter of Mr. and Mrs. M. M. Murdock, died on Sunday last at ten o'clock, just one week from the day she was taken sick. The Sunday before, she attended Sabbath school. Soon after she got home she was taken very sick. So violently so that hardly a hope from that time on was entertained of her recovery. She had been ailing for some weeks before and Sunday morning her father said to us with a sad voice, that he feared he could not keep her long. She was losing, he said, the brightness and vivacity which she had always possessed so much of. Her disease was spinal meningitis, and the week preceding her demise was one of terrible suffering. This, probably, more than her death, wrung the hearts of her parents, who we believe they have the sure and abiding faith that their little daughter sprang from their arms into angelic arms in her own personality and in her own human form, because the true form belongs to the soul and not to the body. Her material garments have been been laid away never again to be used, for never again will they become necessary. This little child is not dead, it is more than ever alive, instinct with the fulness of life, and that more perfect life has its more perfect form. There is no life, there can be none, separate from form, and the spiritual body is the real and truly and only human form. Heaven is within and no afar off in some remote sphere. It only requires the opening of the spiritual sight to see its glories all around us. There is no such thing as death---there is only change of form. When the butterfly emerges from its grubstake, the chick from its shell, the child from its mother's womb, there is a change of form, a laying aside of garments never again to be needed, and analogously this is just what occurs in death so called. There is no cessation of life in its substance and in its form. When a man is in natural sleep, the outer world is to him as if it were not, but when he wakes it seems to be the most substantial of all things. When a man awakes from intellectual sleep he sees new forces, power, beauties--he awakes to the fact of the existence of an universe, whereas before he saw only his own valley or hamlet. The child in this life is continually, as it grows, opening its real eyes upon new worlds more substantial and more glorious than its young mind before dreamed of or conceived possible. The grub sees its fellow grub dying, writhing in pain and anguish, but the butterfly sees its fellow-being born, awakening to a higher consciousness and a more beautiful life. So while we stand around, with tear ladened hearts, the bed of pain and death and apparent annihilation, the angel men and women stand around the cradle of the higher life. Our sad evening time is to them the glorious dawn presaging the full day.
God is the only source and fountain of life. Lifestreams from Him as the rays from the sun as the rivulets from the fountain. There is a constant influx from Him into all recipient forms, in Heaven, in Hell, and on earth. This stream may be and is perverted, but it can never stop flowing, it can never be cut out for one moment. The very existence of God depends upon its flowing and its reception. The life of God radiates, validates the life of all creation. God is life and life cannot create death, therefore, there is no death. Be not, therefore, cast down. For "verily their angels do behold the face of My Father which is in Heaven."
The funeral services were held at the residence. Many friends were present to participate in the last parting and to express their deep sympathy with the sorrowing family. A most affecting spectacle was to see her little class and school mates pressing around the bier, to take a last loving look at the dear one who had passed away from their sight. In the school room, they had decorated her vacant seat with flowers. There were many affecting incidents connected with her sickness. She recalled, frequently with startling vividness, incidents of her home and school life, and would repeat with accuracy lessons and verses that she had learned long before. What was wonderful for a child of her age, she seemed to feel a presentiment that she was going to die. She said, "We are all sick. Mamma is sick, the baby is sick and I'm sick. One of us will have to die. I don't want mamma to die, nor the baby to die. I expect I must die," and then when she thought of the baby, of mamma and papa, and sister and brother, she instinctively drew back from the bright angel of death, for surely the messenger is bright that comes for such innocent ones.
Wichita Weekly Beacon ~ Wednesday ~ February 28, 1883
Family Members
Advertisement
Advertisement
