News from The Cartersville American

 
The Cartersville American
Cartersville, Georgia
April 8, 1884, page 2
 
Transcribed by:  
 

“The Tattler Talks.”

[An excerpt from a longer article.—L. B.]

My grandfather is dead. He lived to a ripe old age and died as peacefully as an infant goes to sleep on its mother’s bosom. He was fully conscious of his approaching end, and requested those around his bedside to arrange him in an easy position and fold his hands over his breast. When the summons came he opened his eyes and said, “I heard some one calling me,” and the spirit flitted away, leaving the old wrinkled face wreathed in a glad smile. He was buried last Friday evening in old Oothcaloga churchyard. As I stood at his grave and looked into his face for the last time, the mellow sunshine fell on his coffin lid and lit up that peaceful face with a radiance that was heavenly. I tried to think all along that I was willing for him to go. That it was better for his tired limbs to rest; but somehow when I leaned over him for the last time, my heart yearned for him to stay. Before I learned to know my father’s face, who was called away to the battle fields of ?? for three years this gray haired ?? was to me a father. After my mother’s, his was the first face I can remember. On summer evenings I have played around his chair and prattled in his arms. I have trotted behind him for miles and miles in tramping over the farm, and when I would get tired he has carried me in his arms, with my hands clasped around his neck. And as I stood at his grave and listened to the clods rumbling on his coffin, these things came rushing to my mind, and in spite of me the tears crept up into my eyes, and I would have kept him if I could. Somehow I can’t quite realize that I won’t see him when I go back to the old homestead. That the corner chair will be vacant and the old stick laid away; but I guess it is so, and it is best. He went away in the evening twilight of his life. The golden glories of the setting sun tinged the fading light with a mellow luster, and the last hours of his life were the most glorious that he ever lived. He will rest well from his labors. As I write these words the mellow moonlight creeps down and touches his grave with a soft silvery halo, and the fading violets shed a sweet incense around the place. Shall I ask your pardon, reader, for having said so much of the grand old man whom I tenderly loved?


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Page 3.

"Town and County"

Mr. W. H. Wofford, of Trout creek, was in town yesterday, shaking hands with old friends.

 

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