The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1871-02-02
The Farmers Grave.

saw it but day or two ago-a plain
white stone, carved over with name and
date, that stands on the brow of the green
cemetery, not stones throw from the
comfortable farmhouse where the tenant
of that grave once resided, and where his
wife and son still remain.
1t was the lonely wife who pointed ii
out to me, as we leaned together, in the
calm Sabbath evening twilight, over the
gate of the little church-yard.
He died suddenly" she said, with a
tender glance at the white head-stone. -
+" He was taken from us by an accident,
and all in moment, as | may say. One
hour be left the house as well as you or
are now, and before another had gone by,
they brought him in and laid him down
before me-oh, so pale and changed, and
suffering so terribly, that may truly say
/ was glad when his last breath was
drawn Yes, dearly as loved him, and
long as we had lived happily together, ]
was glad to close his eyes, and know that
he was out of misery and pain, and safe
in better and happier world than this.
And do you like to see the grave so
near you-so near your homer" asked.
"Why not ?" she asked, with her sad
vet cheerful smile.
:" IF it had been my husband" I said,
ST never could have looked upon his
grave. should wish to put the earth
and seas between me and such a sorrow
as speedily as possible. doubt if I could
bear it with any degree of resignation.
Where it was brought so constantly before
my mind as this must be before yours"
"Ah thought so once; but it was in
the days when knew not the mercy and
loving kindness of the Hand that struck
the blow" she said, gently. 81 am wiser
now, and l can see even the gain of
suffering, as you may one day live to do.
1t dose not pain or grieve me now, to
look at this white stone think no lon
ger of the Wondering dust beneath it.
I muse rather over the glories of the ran
some saint in heaven, of which this
marble seems to me an enduring type and
sign. There is place for me beside him.
l shall lie there before many more years
have passed over my head-who shall say
how soon? And my only prayer is that
my boy may look on my grave with the
same resignation, the same calm hap
piness that feel, as look upon that
of his dear father now. If / was sure
that this would indeed be so, / believe
the bitterness of death would entirely be
past for me-"
Will that prayer of hers for her only
son be ever answered? Who can say?
But surely her thought is gentle and
a tender one and thus, if we were wise
and brave enough, should we all learn to
think of our beloved dead! So might
we, perhaps, in the end, if to US all it
was given to mourn openly and before all
men for that which we have loved and
lost. But the dark ways of life are
many; the darker secrets of the human
heart are not fewi Reader, have YOU
never mourned loss within your secret
heart, on which, with the gaze of the
world regarding you, you have been
obliged to look with dry and apparently
Indifferent eyes? With your whole life
ruined and wasted beyond hope or pow
Or of redemption by the loss of one frail
md erring human creature like yourself, |
nave you never been obliged to show that |
life to the world, still full of purpose,
till alive and eager with ambitious
1lans?
All, these are the losses that wiring the
leart most deeply These are the graves
hat hold, beneath their daisied tuffr. the
sorrows crown of sorrow :" that make
he world desert to US forever, after
hose unwept graves are closed!
Happy those who have never mourned
4 secret beside such mausoleums! Happy
hose whose dead the world may know.
tho are mourned openly, tenderly, and
'yally--like the sleeper in the grave be-
cath the plain white stone.