The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1885-05-01


plexy-I don't know which; for awhile
l was bad of. | can't do much now
adays, and my sons-in-law runs the store
mostly; and so | says to the girls that /
would buy new suit of clothes. /
should have to have 'em anyhow to be
buried in, and might as well get lit
tie wear out of 'em first. So got the
suit; and then I made up my mind to
go visiting. The girls didn't like to
nave me 90 off; but ain got so old as
to be bossed around ike child. knew
! could take care of myself, and | know
everybody in Baldwin that's the name
of the place / am going to; next station
but one. was "a sed there. / guess
this will be my last visit-though man
may have shake and live twenty years
afterward. 1t don't make me much
alive, somehow"
He smiled. and his eyes twinkled, but
his words were pathetic to me. Perhaps
| enc our ged him, for he rambled on,
telling me all about his fam ly and bus
mess affairs. and winding up with an
account OF his wife's death, which had
occurred the winter before. He was
deep in the details Of her last illness
when the train stopped SO suddenly as
to startle ever, body, and the men with
one accord fastened out of the car and
rushed forward to see what had hap
pened A freight train d run the
track, wrecking one car completely; but
a gang of laborers had already arr we'd
from New Haven, and the conductor
told US that the way would be cleared
in an hour or so. Leaving my new
friend to watch the progress of the
work, / sauntered slowly down shady
road that wound through lonely fields.
Presently l came on a little school
house, painted white, and through the
open windows and door saw few
children seated at their desks, while a
few others stood up before the spinster
teacher. reciting a lesson. / felt a
thrill of pity for the lint-locked urchin
who was saying the multiplication table.
stumbling over the mines, just as l had
in my boyhood. Opposite was a grave
yard, running up steep to the east and
and inclosed by low stone wall that
was almost hidden beneath tangled
vines and sprawling bushes. There
were no paths, and the grave-stones
pee ed out from dense growth of tall
grasses, purple asters and vivid golden
rod. One stone marked the grave of
certain Appollos Welthey. who had fall
en- in the battle Of Seven Mountains. |
made my way about the graves slowly,
but found no quaint epitaphs, although
<Rff ha oNr
ordinary--such as Noahd ah, and Par
thena, and Minerva. Far up on the
blow OF the b IL was simple marble
slab, marking the place w ere Parma
Shelby was buried, who had died in
Ii g. aged eighteen. Set back in the
headstone, and protected by a marble
flap that hung on hinge, | scovered
a daguerrotype of the d lad girl, and /
looked long and earnestly on the pic
tured face. The expression was gentle
and winning. Her thick hair was Ora wn
back from b DAD intelligent brow,
and the shadow of a smile lurked in the
corners of her mouth, Her large eyes
met mine with sort of entreaty, max
ing an appeal for sympathy and re-
spect At her throat an old-fashioned
brooch fastened pretty embroidered
collar, and the austerely simple dress
fitted smoothly over her slopng shout
ders and girlish breast. She had died
in September: perhaps she had been
buried on just such a day as this, when
the golden-rod famed along the fences
and the asters were abloom every
where. She must have had friends to
mourn her, q mother to weep bitter
tears in the darkness. Even the sea-
sons, with their storms of rain aud snow,
had dealt tenderly with this portrait of
her, hidden away in the stone.
"You herep'
! started. Behind me stood the gar
rulous old man, my companion in the
cars. looking down at me seriously, and
without word he seated him, elf be-
side me on the sunken stone near
Parnas grave. For awhile we were
silent, AMI the children in. the school
house across the way began to recite
something in chorus, their voices
rising and falling in monotonous chant
"Poor Parna!' said the old man,
softly.
"You knew her?"
He nodd d, and, taking hold of nv
arm, pointed to church spire that
showed itself on a hill to the west.
That's where I'm going" he said. 'It
amt three miles away, and, as we have
to stay there till the track is ear for
the train, thought I'd just walk down
and see the graveyard. My folks are
bur ed yonder, under that pine-tree,
and | suppose I'll lay alongside of em
some day. / told the girls to bring me.
I'd rather be here than anywhere else,
l guess"
After minutes pause he stretched
out his hand, raised the marble flap,
and looked at the portrait of Parma with
wavering smile.
at $ good likeness" he continued.
"Her old father had it put in. She was
all he had left, and he didn't stay long
after she was gone. He used to come
here and sit and look at the picture by
the hour. Many's the time have sen
him sitting here all alone, sort o talk
ing, as though she could hear. He was
childish, and ! guess he thought she
knew that he had come to keep her
company. Perhaps she did" And the
old man let the flap fall over the por-
trait and turned his blue eyes to me in
solemn wonder. ''She u,ed to teach
school across the way he went on,
land all the children came to her
funeral. 1t don't seem but yesterday
that we stood here listening to the
clumps of earth falling on her coffin.
Poor Parma! She was a good girl.
Everybody loved her."
His voice broke, but an absent smile
on his face. "She was en-
gagged to be married." he said, with
certain hesitation, land her sweetheart
was most broken-hearted. He wasn't
of much account, but she thought q
good deal of him, and he was going to
study for the ministry. though his folks
were awful set against it, for, you see,
he wasn't so young, being femme see
oh, he was nigh onto ten years older
than her"
"And after she died?" / asked.
He drew down his mouth: well, he
give up all thoughts of studying for the
ministry. You see, he never felt he had
a real .eall for it; but he would have