DIED, in Cassville, May 12, 1875, MARY ALBERTA, daughter of Mrs. C. A. HILL, and wife of R. B. SMITH, aged nineteen years, six months and eight days.  Neither the anxious watchings nor the tender solicitude of a devoted husband and mother, the plaintive cries of little Berta, nor the skill of the best physicians could stay death’s relentless hand.  Yea, another spirit has found rest in the bosom of its Maker, and from the “Shining Shore” of Heaven we hear the glad shout of victory.  Her fond and loving disposition rendered her the delight of all who knew her.   And to her immediate family, she was peculiarly endeared.  To them she seemed the bright star that shed its cheering beams through the whole circle.  We frequently wonder why one so loved and so lovely, is taken away; e’er yet the flower has unfolded its loveliness.  May not the answer be found in this, that they are too good, too pure for this world, and are only given to us for a brief period, to teach us what we must become to meet with the Father’s Kingdom?  Sweet Mary!  Never again in this world will thy accents of love cheer thy lone husband and that fond mother.  Never will little Berta feel a mother’s love or know a mother’s care.  What a brilliant prospect had that (now disconsolate) husband pictured for the future.  But alas!  How truly have these words been verified: The sweetest flowers bloom but to fade, the most brilliant stars sparkle but to grow dim, the fondest hopes are cherished but to be blighted.  Still we find sweet consolation in this, that if we are good and faithful thy arms will be extended to welcome us into that home where there is no parting, and where sorrow will be no more.

Oh! Thou art gone, thou dearest one,
Yet we should not regret thee.
Though now you fill a heavenly sphere,
We never can forget thee.

And it would seem a sin in us,
To wish thee back again,
When e’er we think of thee in heaven,
We feel that wish is vain.

We hush our hearts and hide our tears,
Though they upon us press,
For guardian angels watch o’er thee,
With patient tenderness.

We’ll think of all thy happiness,
By God and angels given,
And pray that in a coming day,
Thou’lt yet be ours in heaven.

E. E. B.