The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1891-08-28
A SOUTHERN FUNERAL.
The True Story of Burial in an Old yir.
ginia Town.

through there pursuing what was left
of the southern army. The houses were
! old and queer, but they had about them
the most beautiful gardens YOU have
ever seen-gardens where great white,
pink and red roses bloom, where tail
holyhOcks lift up their heads, where the
fragrant citronaloes grow almost as
tall as tree, and where all the fine
trees in the world seem to grow like the
flowers - just because God intended
them to be there 1t is town where
| new customs never come. Everybody
| does as his grandfathers and grand
mothers did before. Every bride is
married in a white satin frock, even il
she only has one other new gown in her
trousseau. The babies are baptized by
the old fashioned names, and the girls
named Carter, and Gordon, and Brax
ton are as many as the boys of these
names. SO when somebody died she
was buried in the same old fashioned
way that somebody's grandmother had
| been.
This time it was young girl, CIR
| just II years old. For weeks and weeks
she had been ill-ill of that DRY I
disease that down south they call ola.
fashioned consumption. All the neigh
bors knew of her illness-knew that
death was surely coming-anC every
woman far and near did all she could to
make life more cheerful while it lasted,
and death easier for this yong girl.
But one night death came, lowered over
the town for minute, and then de-
scended and drew its grey vel over the
young girls face, and she slept.
The next morning about 10 o'clock
| there came to our door tall, dignified
| colored man who was all dressed in
black. Tie wore high black hist, on
which was long mourning scarf; he
had on black gloves, and in his hind he
carried silver tray, upon which rested
large black-bordered envelope tied
with black ribbon. He gave tree sol
emn knocks, and then Cynthi;, the lit
tie waiting maid, opened the dor. The
tray was brought into us and our
hostess took off the envelope, untying
the ribbon that bound it, took out the
paper enclosed, and read t out loud.
This was what was written on it in
large clear letters:
MIR. and Mrs Gator request the
honor of your presence It the burial of
their only daughter, Eancy, who de-
parted this life July fifteenth, eighteen
hundred and ninety-ore, aged seventeen
years
Solemnly the paper was folded up
again, put into its envelope, the ribbon
tied; it was laid on it's silver salver, and
with great quietness handed back to
the dark hued. sad-visaged bearer, who
bore it to the next house. Then we all
went out into the garden to look for
white flowers: for down there there is
no such thing as selling flowers, but
when there is a bridal or death all the
neighbors for miles around pluck the
finest blossoms out of their garden&asd
send them to the one who is either the
bride of Joy or the bride of sorrow. All
the white flowers were plucked, made
up into old-fashioned bouquets, tied
with white ribbons, and sent to the
house of mourning.
funeral. We went to the church and
there we heard the beautiful, ceremony
of the Episcopal church read over the
body of this young girl. 1t was curl
GUS sight, the little stone church oyer
grown with green vines, the sunshine
coming in through the window over the
altar, and that queer box, that verita BILE
ut tD,N
the bottom, such as is never seen any
more in the north; and all about it were
flowers; and all about it were tears, not
only of regret, but Of joy, because,
though she was young, she had suffered
much, and those who loved her best
knew that death was the one great
happiness that could come to her.
When the services were over we
started for the cemetery-not as we do
in the north; not with carriages rushing
through the street, and with great
wagons coming between them and
breaking up the procession. No; there
were only two carriages here, and yet
there were many mournerS. The simple
hearse carried the coffin, and in the two
carriages behind that, old-fashioned
mourning coaches, rode the father and
mother, the old darkey who had nursed
her, and the sisters and brothers of the
dead girl. Behind these, walking, came
the families who were invited to attend
the funeral, the father and mother first,
perhaps little child led by the mothers
hand; then behind them the young girl
who had been her friend, each family
in group, following, until last Of all
came the colored people who had kI5Sn
and loved her Past the grave of Mary
Washington, past the cool, shady re-
treats, past the singing of the river we
went, until the graveyard was reached,
and there was the little grave dug. 1t
seemed so small; it made one remember
how young she was; and almost uncon-
sciously father put his hand on the
shoulder of his girl, his young daughter,
as if he were afraid that such fate
might be hers-that fate which all think
so hard, of leaving the world when we
are young and while life seems full OF
sunshine. The pail bearers stepped for.
ward. These are no hired ones; these
are young men who are her brothers.
friends; they take the little coffin; it has
no handles, and they bear it on their
shoulders to the grave; it is carefully
lowered, and then, before one handful
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