Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1889-05-30
ONE MEMORIAL DAY..

The old man addressed rose from his
arm chair on the porch where he had
been peacefully smoking his morning
pipe and walked slowly down to the
gate. He took the letter from the out
stretched hand that held it and looked
it over carefully but did not open it.
"Thankee, neighbor Gresham" he said.
"Won'tye 'light?"
Cant, thank you. Anything partic'
lar, Uncle?" NeighbOr Gresham cast
curious looks at the letter.
NO; nothin'" said the old man, hast
lily crowding his letter into his sagging
pocket.
"Good day to We then"
He saw the messengers back fairly
turned as the horse walked on up the
straight, dusty road, and then he open
ed his letter with strange slowness and
hesitation; perhaps it was because his
hands trembled so much.
II have succeeded in the task you set
for me-" said the letter. Your sons
grave | have at last located in the cem-
etery at Nashville, in the southeast cor
ner just beyond large pine tree which
will guide you to it at once. also in
close letter which l discovered in my
search in possession of colOred family
of that place. 1t was written by your
son on his death-bed, but unhappily left
without address. The name of the col
ored family who held all the infOrma-
ton | have given you is Benson.
"My fee" The old man read no
further. What were lawyers fees to him
now when he had learned after fifteen
years of weary search the last resting
place of his only son! He bowed his
head upon his hands and wept. Sud
denly ne recollected his other letter
the precious legacy of that dying son.
He opened and read it, wiping away the
tears that blinded his fading eyes.
The words were few and weakly writ
ten by the failing hand that nothing but
love could have strengthened for the
task-wOrds of love and last remem-
brance that pierced again the fathers
bleeding heart. But what was this at
the last! "Sam-tell uncle, father
Sam was shot while trying to drag me
to place of safety. He gave his life
for mine. Comfort uncle, father, and do
not grieve. In Heaven, where the weary
are at rest" The letter paused alb
ruptly. The last few lines had been
family written and were almost lllegl-
bic. No tears flowed now; he sat silent
and pale, the letter dropping from his
trembling hand. How long he sat alone
with those bitter, burning memories, he
did not know. At last the light of an
gelic peace shone over his features.
perhaps l was partly to blame, af-
ter all" he murmured to himself, and
taking his letter in his hand he reached
for his cane and started off up the white
road.
Absorbed in thought he reached his
destination before he knew it, and paus-
ed almost instinctively before a little
gate, half hidden in the shrubbery. Re-
collecting himself he glanced quickly at
the bare, unpainted house before him
and entered the yard. AS he turned a
corner of the house he was suddenly
confronted by little man, somewhat
older than himself, whose eyes blazed
with sudden fury as they rested on him.
"What do you want here-how dare
YOU come here?" he cried, his voice husky
with rage.
"Sam," replied the intruder, softly,
81 didn't come here to quarrel with ye.
l come to tell We that mebbe l was part
in the wrong myself, an L want to for
give an be forgiven" The trembling
voice was interrupted here by sharp
call from the back of the house.
'Sam Peters, you come back here an
finish wipin' them dishes-quick now!"
"You amt happy here, brother San" +"
continued Uncle JudsOn, as he was
called by old and young for miles around.
aye know We amt. Come home to me
and Mirry an let's spend the rest of our
days together in peace an quiet. Won't
We let bygones be bygones, brother Sam!
I've got letter here | want We to read.
Pve-Ive found where my boys buriedp
Up to this point the little man had
kept silence, not because he wanted to
hear what was said, but because his
tongue was powerless to utter the burn
ing thoughts that thrOnged his brain.
Now, however, he interrupted.
"Do you think that l would live in
your house and eat of your bread when
it is through you that l am childless to-
day! My boy would never have taken
sides against his old father if you had
not persuaded him to it."
"Samr'
Fifteen years have 1 searched in vain,
until to-day, that l might know when
and how he died, and have the poor
consolation of mourning over his grave.
And now you ask me to forget my son
and join hands with yOu-never! Go
and mourn over your dead as | shall
mine-alone. No, no; will not hear
your The other attempted to speak,
but his brother hastily entered the house,
closing and bolting the door.
Il am glad l didn't tell him how sam
died." thought Uncle Judson, wearily,
as he turned his face homeward. Mir
rv met him at the door with a kiss and
a look of concern for his sad face.
ais anything the matter, father" she
asked. He did not answer for few mo-
ments, then he said: 81 am going to
Nashville tonight, Mirry."
Tonight, father alone| she
cried, alarmed.
"Yes. dear alone. | will tell you when
| come back" 1t seemed to him that
it must be his sacred right to weep first
and alone over his sons grave; after
ward he would tell her.
All that day Samuel Peters thoughts