Returning from the depot, I espied in the distance the approaching figure of Telitha. As she came up to me she was the very picture of despair. With one hand clasped to her head, she fell on the ground and lay as if dead for a moment. My worst apprehensions were more than realized. I found my mother speechless, and never more heard her voice—never more heard any sound emanating from her lips except labored, heavy breathing. It was all so sudden and strange and sad, I cannot describe it. Neighbors and friends came in by the score, and did all they could to mitigate our great sorrow. “Johnnie” Hardeman stayed until all was over, and mother never received from loving son kinder care or more unremitting attention. Paul Winn also remained and manifested deep sympathy, and so did other neighbors. Oh, the sorrow, the poignant sorrow, to see a mother in the embrace of death, and to have no power over the monster! About thirty hours of unconsciousness, and without a struggle, “life’s fitful dream was over,” about 9 o’clock p. m., April 1st, 1866. The silent hush that ensued was sacred, and scarcely broken by the sobs of those most deeply afflicted.
Loving hands fashioned a shroud, and a beautiful casket was obtained from Atlanta. When all was done, and our mother arrayed for the tomb, she looked like the bride of Heaven. I gazed long and earnestly upon her face and figure, and went away and came back, and gazed again admiringly. For every lineament was formed into a mold that compelled admiration.
During the two days that she lay there, I often lingered by her side; and I recalled the many scenes, ofttimes perilous and sad, and ofttimes joyous and gay, through which we had gone together. Although a wee bit girl, scarcely turned in my fifth year at the time of my mother’s second marriage, I remembered her as a bride. I remembered our journey by gig and wagon to Cassville, then, paradoxical as it may sound now, situated in the heart of a wilderness of beauty and savagery. The war-whoop of an uncivilized race of Indians, justly angry and resentful, reverberated though the impenetrable forest that belted the little settlement of white people that had the hardihood and bravery to make their homes among them. I remembered how she soon became a favorite, and was beloved by every one in that sparsely-settled locality, and won even the hearts of the Indians, by kindness towards them. She taught them how to make frocks and shirts, and clothes for their children, for the Cherokees were an ambitious people, and aspired to assimilation with the white race; and, to please them, she learned to bead moccasins, and other articles, ornamental and useful, just as they did. She also learned their alphabet, and became able to instruct them in their own language.
I remembered how she had always worked for the poor; not so much in societies (where the good that is accomplished in one way is often more than counterbalanced by the harm that is done in others), as in the quiet of her home, and in the humble habitations of God’s poor. I remembered, with a melancholy thrill, how she had worked for our soldiers, and had not withheld good deeds from an invading alien army. Reverently I took in mine her little, symmetrical hand as it lay peacefully over the heart that had ever beat in unison with all that was good. It was weather-beaten, and I could feel the rough places on the palm through the pretty white silk glove in which it was encased. Cold and stark in death, it gave no responsive pressure to my own. I thought of its past service to me in which it never tired. It had trained my own from the rudimentary “straight lines” and “pot hooks,” through all the intricacies of skilled penmanship, and from the picturesque letters on a sampler to the complete stitches of advanced embroidery. The little motionless hand that I now held in my own had picked corn from cracks and crevices in bureau drawers, which served as troughs for Garrard’s cavalry horses, to make bread with which to appease her hunger and mine. I gazed upon the pallid face and finely-chiseled features. The nose never seemed so perfect, or the brow so fair, or the snow-white hair so beautiful. The daintiest of mull caps heightened the effect of the perfect combination of feature, placidity and intellectual expression. I fancied I had never seen her look so beautiful, and felt that it was meet that we should lay her away in a tomb where she could rest undisturbed until the resurrection morn, not doubting that the verdict of a great and good God would assign her a place among His chosen ones.
Soothing to our bruised hearts was the sweet singing of those who watched at night beside her lifeless form. With gratitude we remember them still: Laura and Mary Williams, Emma and John Kirkpatrick, Josiah Willard and John McKoy. One of the hymns they sang was “Jerusalem, My Happy Home.”
The hour for the funeral service came. Friends and neighbors and fellow-citizens had been assembling for several hours, and now the house was full, and the yard was thronged. Where did this concourse of people come from—old men, war-stricken veterans, and a few young men who had survived the bloody conflict that had decimated the youth of the South, and boys and women and girls! All alike came to pay respect to the deceased friend, and to show sympathy for the bereaved and lonely sisters. That sainted man and friend of ours, Rev. John S. Wilson, took his stand near the casket, and we sat near him, and those who loved us best got very near to us. Ah, well do I remember them! I could call each by name now, and the order in which they came. An impressive silence ensued, broken by the man of God uttering in hopeful intonation and animated manner, “She is not dead, but sleepeth,” and a sermon followed upon the resurrection of God’s people, never surpassed in interest and pathos. All felt the power of his theme, and the eloquence of his words. He also spoke of the humble modesty of his friend, who had counted herself least in the congregation of the righteous, and dispensed favors to others in an unobtrusive manner, and who practically illustrated the divine command: “Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you.” This beautiful funeral tribute was succeeded by the hymn—
“Rock of ages, cleft for me,”
which was sung with an unction which none but Christians can feel.
The last earthly look, solemn and earnest, was taken of our long-suffering, patient, loving mother, and everybody in the house followed our example and gazed reverently upon the pretty face, cold in death. And then the pall-bearers, “Johnnie” Kirkpatrick, “Johnnie” Hardeman, Virgil Wilson and Mr. G. W. Houston, bore her to the grave.
With uncovered head and grey locks fluttering in the vernal breeze, Dr. Wilson repeated the beautiful burial service of the Presbyterian Church. I can never describe the utter desolation of feeling I experienced as I stood clasped in the arms of my sister, and heard the first spadeful of earth fall over the remains of our loved one.