As an immortal youth; his hand
Guides every plow,
He sits beside each ingle-nook;
His voice is in each rushing brook,
Each rustling bough.
A SAD LOSS.
From the “Buffalo, N.Y., Express.”
The death of no other man than Henry Woodfin Grady could have plunged Georgia into such deep mourning as darkens all her borders to-day. Atlanta is the center of Georgia life, and Grady was the incarnation of Atlanta vitality. His was a personality difficult to associate with the idea of death. He was so thoroughly alive, bodily and mentally, he was so young, the fibers of his being reached out and were embedded in so many of the living interests of Georgia and the whole South, that no thought of his possible sudden end would rise in the minds of any who knew him. And his friends were legion. Everybody called him Henry.