River Falls journal. [volume] (River Falls, Pierce County, Wis.) 1872-2019, 1875-04-16

So
him | should have been very i'll that day.
now begin to find out, however, that
this strong, handsome fellow, half lion,
half lamb, was as kind to hundreds, % all
alike. as he was TO me. Artemas Ward
died, one might almost say, in his arms.
"Don't tell my mother, Tom. Don't
let them write it to her. Keep it from
her for q year or two, and then she will
not know it till she sees me Oh the other
side--ior she is very old"
The very first evening spent with Hood
he brought out great big basket and
empted it on the table. This was his
fathers scrap.basket, and contained all
the papers, manuscripts, and drawings
that his son had got together and kept.
or course | wanted to see the "Bridge Of
Of Signs" bat there was not one line Of
it to be found. There are few lines,
however, that were meant for this poem
perhaps they are the very first the
great, good poet conceived when this
poem was in his heart. And here they
are, just as | copied them that evening
Cover her; cover her
Throw the sod over her,
Hide her from God.
And then after that and further down
on the sheet is comic picture. Then
still further down this:
"Hello! Who comes there :"
Was it some one knockedl Perhaps il
was man with dun, and the poor man
knew his step.
sometimes wonder if the world, the
well-fed, fat, fashionable world, when it
reads with intense pleasure certain poems,
ever reca Is the fact that the man wrote
them without his dinner.
What curious pictures and drawings we
came upon; such things as could only
amuse little children, and they were all
patched up and fastened together, here
and there, with waters.
Then the son told me that during the
last few years OF his fathers life he could
not sleep for pain, and so sat up and made
pictures for himself and sister and when
hey would wake in the morning they
would find these things pinned and pasted
all about the wall.
Tom Hood is dead. | sit alone before
my task, and | shall not go on with it fol-
many days; for what is the use! Lon.
don is not the London it was.
Here lies letter from those who watch
ed with him to the last. 1t says he
spoke so often of me, and said | would
write verse to his memory.
No. cannot begin it. And what if
did! 1t seems to me to-day that there is
no good to do anything except to do good
to others.
Death is in the world.
Pardon this rambling sketch. | know
that it tells but little Of the story Of his
life or the good that was in his heart.
Yet why should it! The first is known
to the world, the latter is known to God.
And that is enough.
i lay this handful Of crumbled leaves
on his grave leaf and thorn and bios.
m--gathered to-day loosely and sadly
as went back in memory alone over the
path we walked time together. | have
not heart to arrange them better now.
Tom Hood was toilcr for his bread, a
hard-worker. lie needed rest, and |
know he has it. He was poor, not desti-
tute; but like myself, he belonged to the
great majority-was born poor, lived
poor, and died poor.
Something is surely wrong. A man
may edit a journal, or write thing that
makes million people happy, and yet be
left to 60 hungry; while man may fight
battle, that makes thousand people
miserable, and for that get wealth anC
honors without end.
How black and worthless all this reads
as | turn back and read it over. 1t is
half about myself. But | have noticed
that in any great grief or any great JOY
our little selves become the little center
and we can see no further. We stand
alone in the little present. We stand on
"The Bridge Of Signs, that reaches from
the dead, dry past to the unborn to-mOr'
row, and see none Of the beings that tide,
and toll, and battle, and bleed, and die
about us. Good, gentle, genial friend,
farewell
At Paris, KY, on the 9th, at stallion
show Goldemith's AhdalIah was instant.