It was a quaint little spot, and its humble headstones indicated that the great cloud which hangs low over all mankind was not wanting even in the healthful region of the great river. But what had been of peculiar interest to George was the inscription on some of the headstones, and as he pointed out one after another, his companions were soon as interested as he.
“Hold on, fellows,” said Bob, taking out a note-book and pencil as he spoke; “I must have this one.”
The boys waited while Bob made an exact copy of the epitaph, and this is what he found:—
“Jimmie Dooley is my name, Ireland
is my nation, Brasher is my dwelling
place and heaven my expectation.
When I am dead and in my grave
and all my bones is rotten, this stone
will tell my name when I am