The Camden chronicle. (Camden, Tenn.) 1890-current, 1903-01-16

hul me- WAS nllud and I'm the pOOrhOugc
Filty-ivo years ago when 7 FIRST visited
The little town of Rome I noticed
good old man by the name OF Smith
Johnny Smith he was callcd-and he,
too was planting little trees around
the clutches He was q lover OF orna-
ment and he was doing Il without pay,
but not without reward. They grew
pace and gave some shade before he
dleu, ana hept on growing until they,
TOO, almost reached the sky and
are still there, a living, breathing
monument TO the good old man. But
who knows who planted them-who
besides myself? And there is my old
friend and partner, Judge Branham,
who for twenty-five years has been
working on that beautiful cemetery on
Myrtle Hill-maklng new walks and
grading them, laying off lots on the
new purchase, building walls on the
steep slopes, planting trees and flow
ers and in many ways ornamenting
and beaudtying the city of the dead.
Within a few more years he will be
one OF It's sleeping citizens and later
on anothr generation will frequent the
romantic place and wonder who
shaped it into beauty, and nobody can
tell DR.. Johnson said that every
man ought to plant a tree or write a
book or do something for the benefit
and c0RSCrt Of those VINO are to live
after be is dead Our forefathers did
much Tor us" he said, and we must
pay the debt"
Last week our school girl wanted a
speech Her mother and ransacked
the books for one that was short and
sweet and we selected three or four
to choose from. There was Birs. He
mans beautiful poem on Death"
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north
winds breath"
Then there was part of "The Fish
erman's Prayer" by Jean Ingelow, 2nd
THE Last Leaf, by oliver w. Holmes,
which was not so solemn and l liked
1t the best It just fits a maz know
and never see him but what / think
Of those sad and humorous verses.
Il saw him once before-as he passed
by the door
And again,
The paving stones resound as he tot
tiers DER the ground
With his cane,
And now he walks the streets and
looks at those he meets,
Sad and wan;
And he shakes his feeble head and it
seems as if he said:
They are gone!"
The messy marble rests on the lips
that he has pressed
In their sloom
And the names he loved to hear have
Keen carved for many a year
On the tomb"
Our old man is in his ninetieth year
and has seen trouble. He is tall and
STOPPING and steps short and sure. His
friends are all dead, but he goes about
with long cane and looks hard at you
when you stop to greet him and then
he tries to smile, if he knows you.
when he was in his prime-ere the
pruning knife of Time
Cut him down
Not better man was found by the
crier on his round
Through the town;
But now his nose is thin and it rests
upon his chin
Like a staff,
And crook is in his back and a mel
ancholy crack
Is in his laugh"
Then the poet repents and says:
Il know it is sin for me to sit and
grin
At him here;
But his oldfashloned hat and his
breaches and all that,
Are so queer"
And now it becomes me to apologize
to the readers Of my last letter and
tell them that friend from Augusta
has supplied the missing links in my
history of the presidents.
Franklin Pierces mother was Anna
/ Kendrick.
James Buchanan's mother was Eliz-
abeth Speer.
Benjamin Harrison's mother was
Elizabeth Irwin
Willard Filmore's wife was Abigail