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They are ugly; and the poverty of these bits of painted stick, incapable of resisting the effects of the weather, seems sordid in the extreme. In the graves of this part of the cemetery all are in truth equal. To the left of the vast cloister-surrounded square which has been mentioned the scene is a very different one.
I watched a battalion marching back today and they looked like ghosts who had been years in muddy graves. White faces and dazed eyes and leaden feet. Mine's a cushy job. I like it best when the weather's foul. It cheats me into thinking I'm doing my duty. I nodded towards a recent shell-hole. 'Much of that sort of thing? 'Now and then. We had a good dusting this morning.
We figured the cemetery men would fill the graves by lantern light; and knowing something of their hours of employment we imagined that with this job disposed of they would probably turn to and dig graves by night, making them ready against the needs of the following morning. The new graves always were ready.
But the British soldier is a difficult person to impress or depress, even by immense shells filled with a high explosive, which detonate with terrific violence and form craters large enough to act as graves for five horses. "The German howitzer shells are from eight to nine inches in calibre, and on impact they send up columns of greasy black smoke.
By the time school was out that day the news had leaped across Brampton Street and spread up and down both sides of it that the new teacher had been dismissed. The story ran fairly straight there were enough clews, certainly. The great man's return, the visit of Mr. Dodd, the call on Judge Graves, all had been marked.
"It's Jack Pumpkinhead's private graveyard," replied the Tin Woodman. "But I thought nobody ever died in Oz," she said. "Nor do they; although if one is bad, he may be condemned and killed by the good citizens," he answered. Dorothy ran over to the little graves and read the words engraved upon the tombstones.
The hope of Lincoln is finding its late fulfillment: "The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field and patriot grave" Northern and Southern graves alike "to every living heart and hearth-stone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."
From these it was a step entirely practicable to longer warnings, one of her favourites being: UNCERTAINTY OF LIFE "I in the burying-place may see Graves shorter there than I. From Death's arrest no age is free, Young children, too, may die. "My God, may such an awful sight Awakening be to me; Oh, that by early grace, I might For death prepared be!"
Some of them were killed, I believe. All about great holes in fields and road tell the story of the hell that beat about them. Here behind the town one sees fields of graves marked each with a simple wooden cross. Here and there a soldier's cap has been nailed to the cross.
Yes, he had relettered them and hoed the weeds out. It had become the custom. Whoever lived on the ranch did that. For years, the story ran, the father and mother had returned each summer to the graves. But there had come a time when they came no more, and then old Hillard started the custom. The scar across the valley? An old mine. It had never paid.
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