Jennie Boudine Anderson

The Cartersville Express
Cartersville, Georgia
October 5, 1876, Page 3
Transcribed by:  


“Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death;
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart’s relentless force,
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or, beauty charm the sceptre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless an aching sight.”

Died, in Adairsville, Ga., September 16th, 1875 (sic), JENNIE BOUDINE, only child of Mr. and Mrs. James M. ANDERSON, aged 13 months and four days.

As a pure white hyacinthe (sic) she came to the earth, gladdening all eyes with the beauty and fragrance and like in its bud she sprung from heaven nor had awakened to the evils and wiles of a sin-stained world, but cut off by death’s icy hand ere allowed to bloom to full fragrance.  But better that she is gone, for winter’s cold winds have sighed about her but once and ere they come again Jennie is laid low, and they cannot pierce the tomb.

Hers was a sweet warm nature wherein there was no winter and naturally every one tuned towards so sweet a specimen of innocency.  Even the little negroes will remember darling Jennie, for many are the times that she has kissed her tiny fingers to the humblest servant, setting many an example of kindness for us to follow, and now how vividly is every little act reflected from memory’s mirror.  Like a morning glory she was too pure for earth.  She blossomed in the morn to glorify her parents but as it were bloomed only to die and a sweet memory is all that is left to cherish.

No more will tender parents hear little Jennie’s feet upon the floor nor listen to her innocent prattling, and loving grand parents will watch in vain for their darling’s coming until like her they are called from earth and then their little angel will meet them up There.  She was a soft little moonbeam sent to make glad fond hearts’ but slowly and calmly as the dying sun she passed away and in a brighter world is waiting to guide them upward.

“Then wherefore weep?  Her matchless spirit soars,
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angles lead her to those bowers,
Where endless pleasures virtue’s deeds repay,


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