The star and Newark advertiser. [volume] (Newark, N.J.) 1908-1909, 1908-05-19

~ llllDICSSbu Nll1
the wideawakeness of everything, Troll
ley cars clang by on their way TO and
from the hills; beautifully kept car
RACES and automobiles halt in front
OF the various shops. and wagons and
carts of all kinds are constantly in
motion, Everybody is alive, and so
are you.
a few steps to the left, and YOU
wonder if you have not inadvertently
stepped on to a magic carpet and been
carried to a place far off, so impressive
is the quiet around you. Looking back
quickly, as if to confirm this thought.
you find that the cars and the noise are
still there, but detached. You have
gone from reality up a pair of rude
broWnstone steps into a dream. The
quaint old burying-ground of the Or
anges is before you. On every side are
ancient tombstones, some half buried
from the action of the wind and rain;
others broken, with tops lying across
the graves; others all aslant from hav-
ing been loosened in the earth which
holds them; all picturesque, and cach
one mutely telling a story beside the
one carved OF it's face.
"Snatched from ye heart,
In dust its bed;
Sweet babe at rest
Among we dead,'
are the lugubrious lines on a tiny
brown stone, on the top of which is
carved a cherub with folded wings.
In an instant a mental picture is
formed of a laughing, merry tot, the
life and light of u quiet, PuritanicaI
home, whose smiles and gay little
capers bring answering smiles to the
faces of austere men and serious
women, to whom life is a stern respon-
sibility, not given to be lived lightly.
The picture changes, you see the little
one in its coffin, and the austerity and
grave aloofness of it's elders is gone,
softened and vanquished by sorrow.
In losing the babe these folks gained
much in kindness and sympathy for
others.
In n corner, to which all visitors
are conducted, there to admire and
perhaps to ponder, is an old, old vault,
from the centre Of which sprang long
ago a little green shoot, which is now
q great, strong oak tree, with large,
unyielding trunk and spreading, sturdy
branches. Truly, he who was buried
there so long ago would have a hard
time trying to get out should he sud-
denly decide that there is worth in
ghostly midnight saunters round the
ancient stones. In this tree are the
nests of several families of sparrows,
who fortunately are not afraid of
spooks. Their CHEEKY twitter and eX-
Z change of bird gossip brings you a
comfortable feeling that everything's
not dead, and hat by taking a few
steps you can get out of his dream
into everyday, modern, hustling life.
"Hcre Lyes a Blooming Youth"
Here lyes a blooming youth;
She LIVED in love and died in truth"
In spite of yourself you wonder if
the "bloming'' girl was English. and
if in her day maids were always called
youths. Long ago they cared but little
about spelling, if "bloming" is Il sample
of their efforts.
."Short was her life,
Much more her pain.
Short was her life,
Much more her gain"
Pretty god poetry that, only 1t sets
you to wondering if the writer meant
that her pain vas much more" short
thar her life or much more" great.
The same worry afflicts you concerning
her gain. Evidently being "short" is
not entirely a modern trouble. Inc
short young woman or, rather, the
young woman who was short, departed
this life on the first of November, in
1882, long before the first mutterings of
the war which was to make us indie
pendent took place.
One wonders what her life was like,
up there among the Orange hills, then
dotted by only a few substantial farms,
each of which was surrounded by hun
dreds of acres of the most fertile land
in the country.
Back Into the Past.
You can picture her on a Sunday
morning. in quaint gown and "scuttle"
bonnet, beneath which her eyes peep
out right merrily, for life is big and
good and bright to her, even though