The little graveyard sloped
gently towards the setting sun, and from it one could see, far on every
side, the fields of grain and meadowland that wandered off over softly
undulating hills to meet the maple woods at the horizon, dark, green,
and cool. Here and there white farmhouses, with great barns standing
near, looked out from clustering orchards.
Up the grass-grown walk, and through the crowding mounds, over which
waves, uncut, the long, tangling grass, we bear our friend, and let
him gently down into the kindly bosom of mother earth, dark, moist, and
warm. The sound of a distant cowbell mingles with the voice of the last
prayer; the clods drop heavily with heart-startling echo; the mound is
heaped and shaped by kindly friends, sharing with one another the
task; the long rough sods are laid over and patted into place; the old
minister takes farewell in a few words of gentle sympathy; the brother
and sister, with lingering looks at the two graves side by side, the old
and the new, step into the farmer's carriage, and drive away; the sexton
locks the gate and goes home, and we are left outside alone.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253