Iron County register. [volume] (Ironton, Iron County, Mo.) 1867-1965, 1882-08-03
THE LOT FELL ON JOHANNA.
A Story of Moravian Life In IL.
sac PART I.

A Story of NIoravian Life in IL.
a. PART I.
Clear and sweet rose the voices of the
women above the deep, strong voices of
The men on that Easter morn. Early,
SO early, at the very dawning of the glad
new day, did those pious brothers and
sisters of the little Moravian settlement
gather in the gray stone chapel for their
Easter service.
As their voices take up the words of
the Litany:
''Giory be TO Him who is the resurrection and
the life,"
men, women and children rise, and,
forming the procession, move through
the quiet streets to the Quieter grave
yard. They enter the gate, the little
children first, then the singers and the
trombone players. Next in the process
sion come the clergymen-the old bish-
op and The young minister, Bartholomew
Richter, just arrived in America. These
are followed by the women; then come
the men. All are glad and every face
is full of peace, though some of the
women-faces beneath the white caps are
very pensive, if not absolutely sad.
As the procession enters the grave
yard, the song of holy melody rises to
an ecstatic strain. The blue-bird and
the Robin, in the tree-top above the
quiet Sleepers. cease their mathis, and,
flying to loftier perch, look down with
wide eyes of establishment and listen
breathessly to the praise. The grave
yard IS not a gloomy place to the Mora
Wan. His pure and simple faith looks
beyond the coffin-lid, and views death
as the easy entrance into a world of
bliss. The grave is to him ssthe COW
cred bridge from earth to Heaven"
The air was full of pleasant odors,
and the soul of the spring went into
the blood, and caused the heart of the
young minister, Bartholomew, to beat
with quicker and stronger pulsations.
The voices of men and women, the dis
tant music of the trombones, and the
silver strain from the children at the
head of the procession thrilled the
heart of the young man and lifted his
thoughts to Heaven. 1t was all such a
new experience to him. His parents
having died when he was young child,
Bartholomew had been shut off from all
home life and tender associations. Yet
this life, barren as it had been of social
ties and home influences, had not dulled
his quick sensibilities nor quenched the
fires of fertile imagination. In fact,
the long years of patient, unflinching
brain-labor spent in the college hall had
served to sharpen his appetite for all
that was full of life and beauty. He
drank In the pleasure which he now
found in his life of freedom in the New
World as thirsty man drinks rich, red
wine. Yet this keen enjoyment was not
wholly sensuous; but, rather, sense-de-
L. il H.
ton of the spirit. With an eye of flesh
he saw the perfect beauty of the spring.
ing flower, and with an eye of faith the
hand that fashioned its delicate lovli-
ness. He heard the song of the birds in
the branches, and listened for the whis-
pering of the spirit, which he felt and
heard within the depths of his own be-
ing.
As the strong chorus of happy voices
f1oated out upon the air, there sounded
not above the others, not below them,
but clear and distinct from them-one
voice, sweet and strong as a seraph's.
1t was woman's voice, and perhaps
the reason why Bartholomew heard it
SO plainly was that the woman walked,
in the procession, next behind the cler-
gymen. Possibly this accounts; but
the sisters walked behind the brethren,
remember, SO that the young divine
knew not whether the singer wore blue,
pink, or red ribbons for the strings of
her white cap. If she wore the blue,
she was the wife of some one of the
good brethren at the end of the process
sion, if pink, she was hi ''single sis
teri; If red, his girl sis. r, in the first
flush of her fair young: womanhood-
the beautiful Moravian maiden, with her
modest, quiet ways, her shy, sweet
chances, and her ever changing color.
The procession moved on, and still the
sweet voice rang out on the still air,
fioated upward with the soaring lark,
and lost itself in the blue immensely.
Lost itself? Who knows? Nothing is
lost entirely.
There is a break in the procession.
Men, women and children are scattered
through the graveyard, by the rows of
graves, some standing here, some there;
for the good Moravians are buried side
by. side, in the order. of their death. A
husband and wife may lie far apart in
their last slumber and many graves may
intervene between the mother and her
child. Still the service of song contin-
mes: but the voice of mystic sweetness
is no longer heard by young Brother
Bartholomew.
However, when the holy anthem rises
to its greatest height of rich melody, the
sweet voice is again heard, and glancing
in the direction of the sound, Brother
Bartholomew sees q group OF women
and children standing by the graves
opposite. For an instant he is only con-
scious of the white caps and the differ
ant oolored ribbons; but a second