The Greeneville daily sun. (Greeneville, Tenn.) 1918-1920, 1920-06-15

Floral anniversaries benefIt the liv-
H. They arrest the mind from ag-
ricultural pursuits. They lift us
above the clouds Of the valley, the
care Of children and the petty annoy
ances of kitchen and garden and
field. For one day we survey life
from the cradle to the grave and be-
yond. For one day We turn aside and
pay our homage and tears to the
dead.
We depart from the rose covered
mound better men and better wo-
men. We read our own fate in the
epitaphs on the tombstonas. This is
a world of chance and change. | look
into your faces and / see change.
see signs of decay, and you note
the same marks Of destruction in me.
The present order Of things cannot
last. Generations Of men come and
go upon the earth Ike the tides Of
the sea. Millions, billions and quad
rillions of the children Of men have
aiighted upon this planet, lived, died
ard passed to that eternal silence.
They enriched the earth with their
bones, and beautified 1t with their
thoughts. What has happened to all
must come TO each Of Us. Like the
waves Of the sea we timidly touch
these earthly shores, and then re-
cede. Human life is as transitory
as a patch of golden sunshine on the
green sides Of yonder mountains.
Twenty-eight years ago ] taught
school over there at Woolsey College.
The college is now dead 1t is relic
Of pioneer days. The merry boys and
girls that used to assemble there have
grown to manhood and womanhood
and scattered. Some married and
moved away, and some, like Benja-
min, are not II makes my heart
SGD to think of the changes a quarter
of century has made on this creek
under the shadow of the mountains.
Madison Overholser, Bonaperte Wool
scy, Dave Woolsey, Hiram and John
Price, DIR. Dewitt and DR.. Ruble---
all worthy men in their day and gen.
.Qration--have crossed with the grim
Yerryman that dark and mysterious
river where but one goes abreast to
the land Of shawods. When / go to
Greeneville miss many familiar
faces on the streets, and in the stores,
Familiar faces like Col. Doughty and
John Brabson and James Robinson,
and many others, are sleeping in Oak
Grove cemetery.
Nearly all the great men of the
nation contemporaneous with us have
Joined the countless throng whom the
ages have assembled ON the other
side. Bob Taylor sleeps that last
long sleep in old Gray Cemetery,
Knoxville; Lincoln at Springfield,
H.; James G. Blain on Winthrop
Hill overlooking the imperial Ken
nebec; and Andrew johnson on hill
south Of Greeneville. Ingalls,, yor-
hees, Ben Hill, Tom Reed, Sherman,
Grant, Lee, Talmage, Ingersoll,
Beecher, all, like Abraham, Isaac and
Jacob, have been gathered to their
people and sleep with their fathers.
What a harvest of brains the Reaper
Death cut here.
But the mind must not orever
dwell on scenes of death, else life
would be so sad as Gray's Elegy in a
Country Graveyard, or Dickens
Death of Little Nell. Joy and sor-
row, sunshine and shade, are mixed
in this life in about equal measure.
Old Homer speaks of sad old age.
And, indeed, old age is sad and some
times neglected. With me at my time
Of day 1t always seems toward even
ing, and with me the longest day is
short enough. In gathering even
around home there are so army faces
! do not know, that seem to have
been shot forward into future times.
Many of US have buried our parents,