Mower County transcript. [volume] (Lansing, Minn.) 1868-1915, 1889-08-28
DEAD TO THE WORLD,
A Story OF Devotion and of Wasted
Opportunities.

1t was as superintendent of an old
cemetery, in a iake-shore city, that
came to know Miss Abbie Pennel. A
quiet spot it was, though the growth of
population had brought it almost into
the heart of the town; sacred as the
resting place Of most of the early resi-
dents. and where few were buried save
as. now and then, some old person was
brought to be laid beside families and
friends who had been awaiting them,
perhaps for years. Hence, little OF the
passion of fresh grief entered at those
old stone gates, and eyes grew moist
with the mist of tende. recollection.
rather than with the tears of ssasarting
sorrow. Time had laid his finger in
soothing touches on the hearts wf the
mourners, and in lichens and moses
On the quaint old monumental stones.
A liking for the place grew upon rae
'or its peaceful silence, accentuated bv
the stir and hustle of the city streets
outside its wells. In summer evenings,
when the bird-vOices in the tall, old
silver naples were hushed, and the
passers through the long, straight
walks were all gone. l would often
pace up and down. with the dusky tree
shadows falling around me, and the
white stones over the sleeping dead
lifting thick ON every side, and wonder
as to the history Of that great company
on whose every book of life fnis was
written. And so, walking through
them day by day, musing of the hopes
and ambitions long since Dust and
ashes' an emotion of sympathy and in :
terest in them grew upon me, q sense
Of friendliness-I had almost said, of
acquaintance. strange feelings, indeed,
toward spirits who had long passed
beyond the need, if not the knowledge.
OF any OF the gifts poor mortality can
bestoW.
Among the graves that from age,
epltaph, Or some extraneous cause,
soon drew my attention, was one in a
retired corner, noticeable for the con-
slant care with which it was tended
and the fresh flowers on it; renewed
as often as they faded, while the
modest headstone bore a date some
thirty years before
Strong indeed. I said to myself.
t'must this affection be that after all
these years forgets not it's sorrowful
ministry"
malcolm Mcknight Randall" read
the inscription. "A young man of
great promise, Drowned May 28, 49,,
aged twenty-five years. ~
Poor fellow" Thought, lighted,
no doubt, beyond the measure of men,
loved, also, it would seem, beyond
their measure" A daguerreotype was
fixed in the front of the stone, but sun
and storm had dimmed the lineaments,
till only the eye of affectionate re-
membrance could possibly trace them.
And whose that was I had not long
to question. Every afternoon she
came through the old, arched gate, a
slight, gray-haired figure in black,
with a face that no features or years
could ever make plain, holding, as it
did, the beauty OF a rare sweetness
AID serenity. Making her way to
young Randall's grave, she would ee~
main often for an hour or more, tend
ing the plants chat grew about it, or
sitting by the grassy mound, her head
lifted a little. and PARKWAY look in
! the soft, blue eyes, that, despite their
brightness, always held certain pa
thetic usefulness.
Do yo,a know that lady?' I one day
asked gu old factotum of the cemetery,
as the little figure iG black passed US.