And far down a shady path in one of Norfolk's lovely cemeteries there rises a low green grave, over which a costly white marble shaft, never without its daily wreath of fresh white roses through all of summer's golden days, tapers sadly against the blue sky, telling all who care to know that
Willard Clendenon,
AGED 36,
Rests Here.
"Nature doth mourn for thee. There is no need
For man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail,
As fail he must if he attempts thy praise."
[THE END]
"THE RHINE,
THE ALPS,
And the BATTLEFIELD LINE."
The Famous
HAS NO EQUAL BETWEEN