The Clarksburg telegram. [volume] (Clarksburg, W. Va.) 1874-1926, 1898-06-03
HOME AGAIN.

nothing so unimportant in the
world as the spot in which a
mans body shall be buried when
he is dead. When life and knowl.
edge have gone away. when the
busy brain shall hold no more
memories, and the heart shall
throb no longer with love and
longing, what matters it where
the senseless clay shall lie Z
What does it matter whether alien
skies arch above a lonely tomb or
the fierce winds OF the desert pile
the sands above the forgotten
grave ? What matters it whether
the crimson rain of the pome-
granate of the south drifts across
it, or the pale star-eyed daisies
on some sweet New England hill
side keeps watch above the UNI
knowing dust. Strange and in.
explicable is the impulse of the
human heart that makes us all
turn. when the end Of life is near,
to the spot were we were born.
Men who have wandered over the
whole earth, and who have sick
ened and died in foreign lands,
have beggedwith their last breath
that their bones might be carried
back to some quiet country
churchyard. Adventures of
fortune, who left their old homes
when boys and never went back,
have raved in delirium of the
cooling waters of some babbling
brook and dreamed that there
might be peace and rest if they
could Only stretch themselves
beside it once more. AT the last
memory reaches out a thousand
silken cords and draws US back
home again. We ere like tired
and homesic1 children, crying in
the dusk for our mother. and
feeling that if we might only be
Graded once more on the breast
that bore US the last long, long,
sleep must needs be more peace
full and sweeter. 1t is an impulse
that knows no graduation of rank
or circumstances, but is as COM
mon as the heart throb of human
ity. The other day the papers
told how the gifted writer, Ed
ward Bellamy, whose prophetic
vision looked away into a millen-
mum, was being taken back home
to die. Out in Colorado, where
he vainly sought life on the
mountain top. his eyes turned no
longer towards a fair and radiant
future. He could only look
backward to the old Massachus-
sets home where he was, and
yearn once more to lie within its
sheltering arms. Not long ago,
in a neighboring State, a poorly
dressed and haggared man was
noticed slowly wheeling a push
cart along a little, struggling
village street. Within the rude
wagon was faded quilt, and on
it laid some thing covered care
fully with sheet. A curious
passer.by asked the man what
the object was, to which he re-
turned no reply, but went on his
weary way. By and by an idle
crowd gathered about the cart +;
rough gibes and questions were
hurled at the man, and yu.H or
curiosity demanded of him .Ine
name of the thing he wheeled
with such care and getleness. AT
last, in despair, the man turned
back the sheet, and showed the
livid face of a dead woman. 1t
was his wife, he said. She had
been reared in the next county.
They had left the old home. had
gone west and had not prospered.
and were tramping back when
she died. She had begged that
she might not be left forsaken in
some lonely graveyard, and he
was keeping his pathetic cove.
nant with the dead, as best he
might. 1t was the universal in
stinct of the human heart. When
the dark shades begin to fall the
soul, lik,nga homing bird, would
wing its flight back to the old
| f.S,;i;ar enot from whence it first