OBIT: Hattie FREY, 1887, Springgarden Township, York County, PA

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DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL

We regret that we are called upon to record the death of a very interesting 
little girl, Hattie Frey, daughter of Capt. William Frey, of Spring Garden 
township, which sad event took place on Sunday last, of croup of a very 
malignant character.  She was taken sick on Saturday, and so rapid was the 
progress of the disease that she succumbed to the terrible malady on Sunday, the 
work of only a single day.  She is spoken of as an unusual interesting and 
intelligent child for one of only ten summers.  The family have the sympathy of 
the whole community in this the dark hour of their affliction.  This is another 
illustration of the saying that “death loves a shining mark”.  But the summons 
was issued and could not be disobeyed, for “the Master” came and called for her, 
and she is not, for he hath taken her.

    There is no flock, howe’er so well defended,
    But one dead lamb is there;
    There is no house, howe’er well attended,
    But hath one vacant chair.

And yet, while her brief earthly ministry of love is ended, the sacred influence 
remains, as the fragrance of the ointment, after the vase is broken.  To the 
desolated household, what precious memories cluster around them, as they recall 
the past, while to these are added the hopeful anticipations of the eternal 
future, henceforth to be associated with those who are not dead, but have only 
gone before to the loving embrace of Him who said, “Suffer the little ones, and 
forbid them not to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

    We shall miss her when the flowers come,
    In the garden where she played;
    We shall miss her more by the fireside,
    When the flowers have all decayed.
    We shall see her toys and empty chair,
    And they will speak with a silent speech
    Of the little girl that died.

    And therefore, when I’m sitting alone,
    And the midnight hour is near;
    When the fagot’s crack and the clock’s dull tick
    Are the only sounds I hear,
    Oh, sweet o’er my soul in its solitude,
    Are the feelings of sadness that glide;
    Though my heart and my eyes are full when I think
    Of the little girl that died.

York Democratic Press, January 28, 1887