Chapter IV.
The Grave Yard.
Let us wander by this winding road to the place of graves, the great
charnel house where so many, who were formerly actors on life's busy
stage, have laid them down in the sleep of death. Many are the changes
that meet the eye as we pass along, but there are many traces left
that awaken memories of past friends and past years. Here are the dear
old trees under which we have played; the rocks upon which we have
sat, and the stream on which we have sailed; but which now is greatly
augmented in size, as it is now an outlet to the large reservoir of
water, into which the meadow above has been converted.
Crossing the bridge and ascending the hill, let us enter the grave
yard, and contemplate the change that rolling years have made in this
spot;
"Our fathers, where are they?"
Methinks the stones at our feet cry out--"All flesh is grass."
This is an ancient burial place; and as we look upon the dates of the
headstones, how forcibly do we feel "one generation passeth away and
another generation cometh." Many of the monuments have ceased to be a
memorial; having crumbled away, and the inscriptions become entirely
obliterated by the thick covering of green moss that has gathered upon
them. Is not this a lesson that is calculated to humble the pride of
man? But we will pause by the graves of the dear uncle and aunt, whose
remains we saw deposited here many years ago, when our young footsteps
bounded with all the elasticity of childhood.
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