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2 Mother’s Birthday.Sunday, last, July 11th, was the 68th anniversary of the birthday of Mrs. Julia A. Ernsperger, the respected mother of the large family of that name who have so long resided and are so well known in Fulton county. Besides the boys, F. M., Frank B. aud IT. Benton, she numbers among her direct living descendants Mrs. Aaron Berry, Mrs. Charles Jackson, Mrs. M. V. Bates (Margaret Holmes), Mrs. Sam. Keely, Mrs. Dr. Nafe, Mrs. A. J. Davidson and Mrs. Samuel Nafe. She has thirty living grand children, and ten great-grand children.Mrs. Ernsperger was born in Somerset county, Pa. Her maiden name was Entsminger. When she was five years of age her parents removed to Wayne county, Ohio, where, at the age of 17,* she was married to Christopher Ernsperger, with whom she lived in happy wedlock until his e of I death, which occurred two years ago tion I last May. The family removed to Fulton county in 1858, and have ever since made this their home. Here all the boys and several of the girls were married, and all have made their records. Joy and sorrow have mingled in about equal proportions in the current of their lives, but their affection for mother has never diminished nor grown cold. On the occasion of her last birthday her gifted daughter, Mrs. M. V. Bates (better-known to the reading public as Margaret Holmes), wrote andsuBEAPugtowsho’i ty ii posi plac and selfis mght forwarded the following beautifullines in her honor. They are a tribute of affection’s rarest flowers, and worthily adorn-the venerated brow upon which they are bestowed: mother’s birthday, JULY IItii, 1880.Throw wide the windows and doors;Let the golden sunshine In;Let it flood the walls and floors While the pleasant summer din Or birds, in the rustling trees,And the fragrant winds that blow.The droning hum of bees,And the brooklet’s murmuring flow,Steal round us women and men With our weight of sin and care,Till we feel like children agin^With a mother young and fair.The years we will lay aside Like a garment worn and old;Throw off the mask of pride,And drop ill-gotten gold.Our hands we’ll All with flowers,As in the dear old days,When our feet, through sunny hours, Knew all the pleasant ways,By the creek where blue flags grow, And the spice-wood scents the breeze; And the bloseoms, white as snow I Fall from the dogwood trees.Let us look in each other’s eyes, And trust as we trusted then In those gorgeous, long Julys, Belore we were women and men.Let us talk of dreams fulfllled;(Child dreams are always fair,) Then help each other build Our castles in the air.We will tell of wonderous things,As children always do;Of enchanted wreaths and rings,And of times when lights burn blue.And when we’ve done the task, Before we go to rest.As we nsed to do. we’ll ask, “Which story of all was best?”I have no tale of grand Old times with kings and queens; No story of fairy land,Of giants or giant beans.’No hero of battle plain Snail dim your giistenin*, eyes;No saint nor martys, slain.Shall wake your pitying Bighs,No priestly fancy wild Of slaughter, and the flight Of the virgin and her child.Through ail the shadowy night. Not of anguish and dispair On mount of pilgrims trod,When the earth shook, and the air S’ghed for a dying God.But my story is old as earth With her blooming hills and dells; A story of death and birth,And of merry wedding bells.And ’tie all bo true and sweet —I scarce can find a rhyme In which I dare repeat This story, old as time.No words can ere express—No song fling on the air The depth and tenderness Of mother’s love and c are.We know’tis this enfolds All earth in Its living bars; Through ages it broods and bol ds True as the golden stars.But the story is long; you’d grow So tired; I’ll only say A word for a mother we know, Who is sixty-eight to-day.Through so many bnsy years,Like so many trodden miles,Our griefs have received her tears.Our joyB she has blessed with smiles.We have had unstinted praise, Censure, so kindly light,And toil has filled her days,. And watchings many a night;And time, like a thief has come;And grief with nnsparing hand; And death, from the walla of home Bore to the unknown land,Her dear ones; yet, though bereft. She ne’er forgets to bless The circle about her left,With love and tenderness.This is part of the story long. Made up of smileB and tears; Of joy and grief and wrong.And hope through all the years.The templea of gods decay,The swords of our warriors mat; Their memory dies in a day,When they have returned to the dust;’T will he always so, but when This story no raptures givo,’T will be that mothers of men Have ceased to suffer and live.WaynUnioiAubbLiberRoclnRich! Ilenrj New ( TownT(It in til popi then grovheldtiontion.almcgrat(FnltiThisthe tit tlt;who!ourfacil:badl;tO 62latio abou torie At turni coun lines thoslt; must This ties, Cast] edgi petir verse natu: ated hibit ter h her cin g 'sougnorprogfromas m;comebeendeatlThthese that i too g east £ingipossi enter and c tunit ly on prese clear vidcc It is soil lt;fort ctionday. the a of th the t short and older this y comiity wiUpt naccel place the n~Csuitstyllt;—1 of th nersfastyllt;pior—aciety
Newspaper Details
Rochester Republican
Rochester, Indiana, US
Thu, Jul 15, 1880
Page 3
Full Page
Clipped by
Jerry E.
USA 07 Jul 2019
Other Publications Near Rochester, Indiana
Rochester Mercury
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Rochester Indiana
