Clyde Prescot Cook (1892)

COOK

Posted By: Pat Hochstetler (email)
Date: 1/18/2008 at 10:38:59

Winterset Madisonian – October 7, 1892
Winterset, Iowa
Page 2

County and City

The family of Mr. and Mrs. W. M. Cook has suffered a second affliction in the death of their little boy, aged about six, who was buried last Monday. It was only last week that we reported the death of a younger son, and now a third child and its mother are sick also. The deaths were caused by malarial fever.

Note: Burial was made in the Winterset cemetery.
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Winterset Madisonian – October 28, 1892
Winterset, Iowa
Page 6

Obituary

Died in Winterset, Oct. 3, 1892, after a brief illness of malarial fever, Clyde Prescot, son of Wm. M. and Flora B. Cook, aged five years, nine months and twenty five days. Oh, this terrible disease, working so insidiously, making its inroads and fastening itself in the system with such a firm and grasping disposition, as to impress even this little boy with the fact that he could not recover, as he said, “Papa I can not get well, can not live only in heaven.” And after a heroic struggle for his life, with the treatment of a skilled physician he was forced to yield it up. What a manly little man he was, how thoughtful, how considerate for one of his years. As in speaking of his little brother’s death, which occurred September 21, twelve days previous to his own, he said, “Mamma, God knew best when he took Orville, didn’t he?” How extremely and peculiarly sad the circumstances surrounding these deaths as the one succeeded the other in so short a time.

Two very interesting and promising children so suddenly taken away. How sad to contemplate and hard to realize, as we were so suddenly alarmed by the visitation of death when we least expected it. How true it is that in life we are in the midst of death. Only a few days ago these little boys, so full of promise, had as many bright prospects for future life before them, perhaps as any, to-day they sleep the sleep that know no waking in this life. What a sad home. How they are missed.

The little wagon, the little rocking horse and other toys of childish amusement, are solemn reminders and speak sadly, yet eloquently, of the past. There was something so cheerful, so gay, so vivacious, so grand, so noble, so lofty, in these young natures, just starting out in the morning of life, that always commanded our admiration. But death, so relentless in his demands, the king of terrors, and terror of kins, invaded the family circle, snatched two precious gems, the brightest gems, the family pride, so unexpectedly, with such rushing force, as to leave us standing as it were in tragical amazement. It seems to us that it cannot be possible. More like a frightful dream, but, alas, too true. Gone, gone, never to return.

But one consoling thought. They have escaped many of the dangers, temptations, trials and conflicts of life and while their bodies lie side by side in the same grave, their immortal souls are happy basking in the amaranthian bowers of spotless purity. “God knows best.” And while we are called upon to pass through these deep waters, may we recognize in these sad and painful afflictions, another solemn admonition from Him who doeth all things well, for us to be ready when the summons comes.

And now dear children, to us especially interesting, it is hard to give you up. How sad the final parting, and while it wrings our hearts with anguish and melts our eyes to tears, yet this last word must be said. Farewell, then, until we meet in the land that is fairer than day, in that sweet bye and bye.