The weekly north Iowa times. [volume] (McGregor, Iowa) 1857-1867, 1864-10-19
For the North Iowa Times.
THE OLD HOME GRAVEYARD.
BY EMMA F. PRADT.

BY EMMA F. PRADT. 20. BY
It lies in . quiet, shadowy nook, away
from the din Of business and worlds
tumultuous swell, its white hcadstoncs
cleaning in the bright sunlight; the thrush
and robin are chanting their sweet bird
chorus, and the tall Norway spruce points
ITS tapering finger heavenward and waves
it's n'ournful branches. and the long creep
ing boughs Of the willow bend nearer above
the graves, kissing even the white stone
and the soft wind sishs sadly thro' the
pine, and the thrush flutters up from her
nest in yonder cedar, and the dim haze
hangs warm and blue above the town be.
meath me, and the river frets over the
gnarled roots Of this giant oak, murmuring
a low, sad requiem for the silent dead who
sleep here. The marble shaft that rises
there is I'm memory Of Mary l., aged
20 years." GODS angel looked on US all
and, loving her most, s.raightway relieved
her Of life's weary load" And with tha,
name recall ramble with Mary here years
ago, when We both ~ere young and life
wore its most radiant colors. We sa,
under the shade OF the same sturdy oak,
whose long branches nod and Autter with
a soft, billowy motion above darling Mollie's
grave. How strange it seems to me to
write Of her grave. Even now I can feel
her cool fingers wandering thro' my hair
her dirnpled hand resting lightly, lovingly
as an angels blessing upon my feverel
brow, while we talked Of the glorious future
that in our girlish imaginings cleaned ou,
golden and beautiful.
Then that sweet breathed May day
ope'd her blue eyes and put on her robes
of crimson and purple, and walked stately
and silently down through all the fee,
winged hours, and lost my girl friend, for
she stood by the side Of manly form and
promised to ''love and honor till death dc
US part" Then didst thou learn, Mary
darling, my sweet girl love, the first page
in the life book of bitter experiences, for
thy sweet, loving nature was never mean,
to live in barren, sterile soil. It needed
the warm, nuriuring soil Of love and
the cool honey dews of tenderness. So
the frail form bowed like bruised reed
and the tirm, elastic step grew languid, and
the glad, joyous smiles that used to break
in bright ripples over thy sunny face, died
with the roses upon thy cheek. Two years
only had glided by when Edmund wrote
me hasty line, saying: Come to Moilie,
Emma; she asks for you continually, and
DR.. Winn says she cannot live" And
thus it was upon the second anniversary
Of her marriage day went to her. The
sunshine was falling in soft dimples through
the cluste ring Eglantinc that shaded the
window, the peach trees wore their delicat,
pink blossoms and the dog wood tree down
in the meadow hung up its snowy banners,
and the full buds OF the lilac grew purple
and loaded the air with its balmy incense
when she laid her head upon my heart tha,
had beaten ever warmly for her, and told
me Of the miserable days and weeks of heI
marriage life, when he who should have
cherished and loved her, had cast her aside
as play,hing Of which he had wearied.-
"Oh. Emma, how my heart has yearned for
ycur wonted love and sympathy in my
weary loneliness and desolation. 'Tis q
sad, fearful thing, Emms, to find yourself
an unlocsd Wite. to feel that you are drift.
ing out thro' the deep, dim foods of Egyp.
tian darkness, anchorless, rudderless." -
Oh! how much that short tale told me Of
neglect, Of days and weeks when her heart
had hungered for love, and could only sob
and press closer to me the fair girl form
grown 30 thin, and while her upturned face
wore the changing hue which precedes
dissolution, felt that Death, the soother Of
all human woes, was slis
shutting out and forever more,
v The world and its worldly troubles w
The hours fled Aeetly by, and the suns
disc was hanging just above the little lake
whose CLASSY surface wore not . ripple,
when her pure spirit went home and We
brought her here as she had requested, to
her childhood's home, in the old burial
ground. Edmund erected the elegant shaft
with that touching inscription upon It, but
/ never stand before it but l feel that it
ought to be murdered by neglect, starved
for affection" "Poor broken hearted, twas
well that she died" -...... ~,
Just next is my Mothers grave. Mother!
oh what yearning that word ever calls
into my heart, for while but babe she left
me for the Heavenly City, with prayer
and blessing for her motherlessr child
Mother, mother! find myself ever re-
peating the sweet name, and its low
cadences ripple down tenderly into my
heart. Here beside her lays the las, jewel
in my crown Of womanhood, for in my