The Hood River glacier. (Hood River, Or.) 1889-1933, 1915-11-04
Underwood Bouquets and Brickbats

Underwood Bouquets and BrickbatS
The funeral services of the late Mrs.
Fannie Haynes Davidson was very
largely attended and the floral offerings
were very numerous and beautiful, at
testing to the universal esteem in which
this good lady was held in this COM
munity and justified the splendid eulo-
gy Of her pronounced at the chapel ser
vice. The memories of her will live
after her and be fragrant through the
years. What armies of loved children
and companions stand behind us in the
unseen land whose faces we only saw a
little while here, but who now live in
memories that can never perish.
No one wants to be forgotten. All
crave to be remembered. A child 5
earliest fear is the fear of being for
gotten, and the old mans last request
is that to be remembered. The prophet
of old prayed that he might be remem-
bered and his name never dropped out
Soldiers and eXiles endure their loneli-
ness through the thought that they are
not fogotten. In all ages men have
reared monuments TO keep alive the
memory of those who have passed on.
The richest, grandest. lOveliest struc-
lures now standing on the earth, or
that have ever been reared by human
hands, are memorials to the departed
BY costly embalment. by sculptured
sarcophagus. by pyramidal grandeur.
by epitaphal commemoration, by ca
thedral dirge. by history, art and elo-
quence, and most beautiful of all, by
flowers strewn on the grave, men seek
to keep alive the memory of those who
have gone and invest even the cold sep
uIcher with the symbols of hope and
immortality. 1t is we'll that we should
do so. We draw back with horror from
the thought of dropping out forever
from mans recollection. The dying
Garfield whispered, will men remem-
ber me and my work."
Something to be remembered by is a
worthy human craving. And we will
all leave some kind of memory behind
We go through life getting memories
and bequeathing memories in all we
touch; memories written often care
lessly and with pale ink, but in future
years, long after we are gone, sthese
memories will come out clear and dis
tinct in other hearts.
Ole Bull, the great violinist, was a
friend of John Ericsson who built our
first ironclad. They had lived near
each other and passed their boyhood
days together, but their occupations
had made a wide divergence between
their paths. Errcson's machinery had
silenced the music of his early life and
he even now refused to listen to it,
Ole Bull visited him and was deter
mined to make him listen to his violin.
The inventor had not invited him and
showed no interest whatever in that
piece of wood and its strings. Ole Bull
went into Ericson's shop and began to
talk about woods, because wood is a
very important part in violin. He
talked about the scientific properties of
wood and Erricson listened. He talked
about the mechanism of the violin, and
Errcson listened. Then Ole Bull put
the violin to his shoulder and thumbed
a few little strokes with his finger, and
still Erricson listened. Then Ole Bull
took his bow, that bow that had de-
lighted so many people, and drew it
carefully across the chords, and it
seemed as if the angels were singing a
long way off. All the workmen in the
factory stopped and listened; and Ole
Bull drew the bow aagin, and in few
moments Ericsson stopped and the tears
began to come down bis cheeks, and he
turned to Ole Bull and said: eco on,
go on all my life | have missed some
thing, and | never knew what it as
until just now; go ont" He had heard
once more the brook in the valley; the
birds warbling upon the hillside; the
old scenes all depicted and made to live
again, and his own soul now began to
sing for JOY. 1t was magnificent dis
coVery. He who aWakens sweet mem
ory is his fellow mans benefactOr and
offers some of the sweetest delight and
comfort in the human heart.
They placed small handkerchief
over the back of the chair which stood
at the head of the coffin when John B.
Cough was buried. The silver tongued
orator had often told the pathetic story
of that handkerchief. He said: 81
have in my house small handkerchief,
not worth three cents to you, but you
could not buy it from me. A woman
brought it and gave it to my wife and
said: i am very poor. would give
your husband thousand pounds if
had it, but ! have brought this. ! car
ried with the fairest and brightest
prospects before me, but my husband
took to drink and everything went.
The piano my mother gave was sold,
until at last found myself in one mis-
cradle room. My husband lay intoxi-
Gated in corner and my child was ly
ing restless and hungry on my knee. |
sang. The light of other days had
faded, and ! wet my handkerchief with
my tears. My husband, she said, to
my wife, met yours. He spoke few
words to him and gave a grasp of the
hand, and now, for six years, my hus-
band has been to me all that husband
can be to a wife, and we are getting
our household goods together again.
have brought your husband the very
| wet through that night
with my tears. and want him to re-
member, when he is speaking, that he
has wiped away those tears from my
eyes forever " "Ah," said Cough,
"these are the trophies that make men
glad The memory of that handker-
chief has inspired me for 25 years to do
better service for humanity and for
God"
So. the good memory never dies and
gives inspiration to better living. Do
good ard be good and you will never be
forgotten. You will leave behind you
a monument which the storms of time
cannot destroy and fragrant memories
of you will live after you like the green
grass above your grave.
ThistledoWn.