Arizona sun., 1948-02-06

staring at that
coffin in Chicago, there always re-
mained a confused impression OF
mourning for the man she thought
was not dead, but sleeping, and the
father she never had seen. Perhaps
that feeling was impaired to me.
My mother described the scene to
me. It was clearly etched in her
memory like the rest of the strange
hegira which she took westward
with her widowed mother from a
little town in New York state Gas a
bride, my grandmother had pio-
neered the West with her young New
York state farm-born husbanO.
OF course, the memories were
blurred and blended, undoubtedly,
with later repetition of the event,
but the picture was clear, and only
wish I could repeat it in my moth
er's own words. The train trip west,
the arrival in the great city, the
crowd about her as she advanced
slowly with her mother into the
great hall. Then the coffin which she
did net know was coffin for there
was no such word in her tiny vocab.
ulary.
Her mother let 60 the little girls
hand to move back her own heavy
veil. Then the little girl remembered
being lifted in the strong hands Of
the guard. About him she could re-
call only blue tunic, shiny brass
buttons and the smell of tobacco.
Then the face of the sleeping"
man, and her mothers quiet tears.
(The body Of the martyred
President, as you know, was
taken from the East Room Of
the White House to the capitol
where it lay in state. Then it
was carried across the country,
pausing for homage in several
cities until it reached Spring
field, LincOIn's hOme.)
repeated my mothers story
after her death, as best I could on
the air-and there were sequels.
Letters-one from lady in New
England for whom the broadcast
had awakened memories her
father had been one Of the Union
soldiers chosen to stand guard at
the catafalque in Chicago. It might
well have been he who lifted my
mother.
The soldiers who had been chosen
for that honored duty were permit
ted to divide the gold-fringed drape
that covered the coffin, she wrote
me, and she consigned to me a frag-
ment which I cherish.
There were many other let
ters. One from the niece Of one
Of Linco1n's cabinet members,
william Pitt Fessenden; an
other enclosing the announce
ment shown in the cut.
Those were two sequels to the
story of the little girl and her weep
ing mother. I think the everlasting
sequel can be read again and again
In the story Of America, as the story
Of Lincoln is projected far on into
history. I think have seen it pro-
jected in the crowds who come to
Washington, avid with guidebook
and camera to collect souvenirs.
Only this week, the garrulous cab
driver who carried me from Union
station was full of story of South
Americans" who spent endless
hours (according to his timing) at
the Lincoln Memorial. The memo
rial remains shrine for all visitors,
native and foreign, place where
flippant chatter is stilled before that
almost living replica warmed to life
out of cold marble by the inspired
hand Of Daniel Chester French.
1t lives as the spirit Of Abra-
ham Lincoln lives.
To the little child beside the cata-
falque, except for her mothers
tears there was no mourning in
that moment. Only something SOL
emn, something important, some
thing that touched old and young
alike because it had in it the cosmic
rhythm of the epic, and, as well, the
simple, soul-touching melody of the
folk song.
And I wonder If there was not
some intangible, some eternal quail
ity Of what Lincoln did. or what his
character has etched into the his