The progressive farmer and the cotton plant., 1905-06-13


hunted in the rosy past or because In the hollow
by it grew some of the most luscious peaches Ci"I
ever reioiced palate is it strange that mere l
feel surge of pulse and moisture OF eye uhieis
before the statue of Vance, the grave OF Lee, or
the tomb of Washington? How Is 1T that historic
mausoleums dwindle in COMPARISON with tnese
plain slabs-how that this simple country grave
ward rises mountain-high above the enchanting
city cemetery with it's splendid shafts, grassy
plots. shaded walks, and aristocratic dead!
Mainly think. because here Is an ln1ant
grave. and Just above it the grave of man, ana
next to that a grave that is yet to be made.
Tt was years and years ago. Three brothers
were playing morning on the grassy Dank
of the Shop Branch it nears the river. In their
veins ran fresh and red and fast the streams OF
life. Unfamiliar were they with the tragedies OF
birth and of death Care-free as the babDhng
brook were they and light-hearted as the birds OF
the air. How sweet and sunny their childish play! !!
And as they played the angel OF LIE and the
angel of DEATH almost hand in hand, entered and
left their home But they saw not nor knew Till
their father came and told them In the slow, sol
emn, never-to-be-forgottenw words. "Ihere's little
dead baby at the house!
It was as if sunbeams had been changed into
lightnings and bird-twitter into thunder crashes
GA little dead baby at the house,"
Deep and indelible the impress of that hrst
shock of commingled life and death. While we
we're at play a wee brother from far-away mvs-
terious Babyland had come to make us happy and
Join our game; but alas, his tiny hands were no
| sooner opened to greet us than they were closed
over his bosom; the cry of dawning life ended IN
| the note of chilling DEATH the morning light he
saw then closed his eyes forever; his spirit aut
tered for moment in world and then winged
| its way to God.
| Up now from childish game and verdant play
ground: into our cottage on tp-toe, hearts thump
| ing. breathing labored; and-there, all clad in
| white lay "the little dead baby" trundle-
| bed!
We had heard parent and preacher speak of
| DEATH but to us they spoke in unknown tongue.
But here-right here on our trundle bed-was the
work of death, the first of its victims lying move
less and cold before our very eyes. And death, we
thought was cruel and terrible; subtle, bitter,
inescapable foe that snatched brothers life
lust as it was given stifed his first cry and stilled
| his bounding heart, and foreclosed right to
| feed him or play with him or take him In our
arms, or rock him in the old walnut cradle
| "Go up and ask grandpa to make little box to
| put the baby in" was the mandate of submissive
| father and resigned mother. Then the shock of
| that first unweeping sorrow found relief in the
performance of duty: the mile up the valley was
quickly traversed and the revered sire told
| the sad message there were boyish throat Jumps
sobs, and tears--their earliest offerings the al
tar of sorrow.
The tiny coffin made and the baby put in
it. A handful of friends came and followed the
little body around the orchard to the Graveyard
Hill, and here in short. deep, narrow grave was
laid the body of the little fellow whom we knew
not but loved and mourned.
And the Graveyard Hill henceforth was some
thing more than in the past; this red mound
and these small marble slabs have all through the
| years been the marks of initial family be-
reavement.
o@fears passed-oh, would they had been longer
and many, many more! The very first year of the
new century had come and the first month of the
year going day by day. The home yonder at
the base of that south hillside had for three de-
cades caught as much sunlight out of heaven as
homo in thn uollorr Il