Forgotten Graves
ONE day, as the children stood by Granny Robin's side, they talked
about the old graves in the churchyard. It was a bright spring evening,
and the golden sunshine was streaming through the branches of the
ragged, untidy trees, which nearly hid the old church from sight.
Granny Robin could not see the sunshine, but Stephen could see it, and
he told her about it, and said he was sure the swallows liked it as
much as he did, for they were flying round and round in long circles,
twittering as they flew.
It had become quite a regular thing for Stephen to tell the old woman
all he saw, and he loved to hear her say that she was now no longer
blind, for she had found a pair of new eyes.
One day she called him her "little Hobab," and when he laughed and
asked her why she gave him such a funny name, she said it was because,
long, long ago, when Moses was travelling through the wilderness with
the children of Israel, he said to his brother-in-law, Hobab:
"Thou mayest be to us instead of eyes." And she said that God had sent
little Stephen to her, in her old age, that he might be instead of eyes
to her.
"I am so sorry for those poor graves," said Stephen on that spring
evening, when he had been telling Granny Robin about the sunlight and
the swallows.
"Why are you sorry for them?" asked the old woman.
"They look so sad and lonely," said Stephen.
"What are they like?" asked Granny Robin.
"Oh, all green and dirty," said Audrey, "and the trees are fallen
against them, and when the wind blows, their branches go beat, beat,
beat, against the stones, till Aunt Cordelia says she can't bear to
hear them when she's in bed at night."
"Does nobody bring flowers to put on them?" asked the old woman.
"No, never," said little Stephen.
"Nor wreaths?"
"Oh no, never."
"Does no one ever come to look at them?"
"No, never once, Granny Robin," said Audrey.
"And they do look so sad," said Stephen.
"Yes," said the little girl, "I went with Aunt Cordelia to the cemetery
one day, and it's lovely there, just like a garden; the flowers are
beautiful, and there were heaps of people watering graves, and raking
them and pulling off the dead flowers, and some of them were crying."
"But no one cries over these graves," said Granny Robin.
"No, not one person," said Stephen. "My father says all the people that
loved them are dead and buried themselves."
"Poor forgotten graves!" said the old woman. "And my grave will be like
one of them in fifty years' time—a forgotten grave."
She was talking to herself more than to the children, but little
Stephen answered her.
"Will no one remember it, Granny Robin?"
"Yes, some one will," she said brightly; "my Lord will never forget. He
will know where it is, and whose body lies inside, and it will be safe
in His care till the great Resurrection Day."
"Will the angels know too?" said Stephen.
"I think they will," she said.
"Do they know who are buried in these poor old graves?" asked the child.
"Yes, I believe they do," said the old woman.
"In every one?"
"Yes, in every one."
"Even when the names are worn off?" asked the little boy.
"Yes, I believe they do," said Granny Robin softly.
"I'm so glad," said Stephen. "Then maybe the angels do come and look at
them sometimes. I expect they come at night, when Audrey and me are in
bed. I'll get out and look some night, Granny Robin; maybe I shall see
them; my window looks out this way."
The forgotten graves weighed heavily on Stephen's mind after this talk
with the old woman. When Audrey was at school, he used to wander up and
down amongst them, pitying them with all the pity of his loving little
heart. And he would try to put aside some of the branches that kept
blowing against the stones, and which were so fast wearing them away,
and he would pull up some of the long grass, which in some places hid
the stones completely from sight.
"Audrey—" he said one afternoon when Aunt Cordelia had given her leave
to have a long play with him, "Audrey, couldn't we make these poor old
graves look nice?"
"We couldn't do them all," said Audrey. "Why, Stephen, there must be a
hundred or more!"
"No, we couldn't do them all; we might begin with two—one for you and
one for me, Audrey."
"Well, let's choose," said the little girl. "We'll walk round and have
a look at them all."
"We'll have one with some reading on," said Stephen, "and then we shall
know what to call it."
"Here's a poor old stone against the wall," said Audrey; "I'll read you
what it says."
"'SACRED
TO THE MEMORY OF
CHARLES HOLDEN,
WHOSE REMAINS LIE
HERE INTERRED.
HE WAS
OF HUMANE DISPOSITION,
A SOCIAL COMPANION,
A FAITHFUL SERVANT,
AND A SINCERE FRIEND.
HE DEPARTED THIS LIFE
THE 23RD OF DECEMBER, 1781.
AGED 38.'"
"I don't like that one bit," said Stephen; "it has got too many hard
words in it."
"Well, here's another."
"'IN MEMORY
OF
JOHN POWELL.
DIED IN 1781.
ALSO MARY, RELICT OF
THE ABOVE, WHO DIED
JANUARY 20, 1827,
AGED 87.
ALSO TWO GRANDCHILDREN,
WHO DIED YOUNG.'"
"That's much nicer," said Stephen. "I like those two grandchildren who
died young. I wonder how old they were; do you think they were as old
as you and me, Audrey?"
"I don't know," said Audrey; "it doesn't say, and it doesn't tell if
they were girls or boys."
"Never mind," said Stephen, "we can guess. I think one was a girl and
one was a boy. And are their bodies really down under here, Audrey?"
"Yes, what there is of them," said Audrey; "Aunt Cordelia says they
turn to dust."
"Oh," said little Stephen, in an awestruck voice, "I wish we could see
the dust of the two grandchildren who died young! I'll have this grave,
Audrey, and take care of them. Is there any one else inside it?"
"Yes, there's John Powell, died in 1781; also Mary, relict of the
above," read Audrey.
"What does relict mean?" asked Stephen.
"Aunt Cordelia has a relict," said Audrey, "and she keeps it in a box."
"Is it a woman?" asked Stephen.
"No, it's a bit of grey hair; she cut it off her mother's head when she
was dead, and she says it's a relict. I don't know what she means, but
she keeps it locked up ever so safe."
"I hope John Powell didn't lock Mary up," said Stephen.
"She must have got out if he did," said Audrey, "for she lived a long,
long, long time after him. He died in 1781, and she didn't die not
until 1827; let me count up, it's quite a long sum. Why, it's forty-six
years, Stephen!"
"Oh dear," said Stephen, "that is a long time! Let's tell Granny Robin
about it, and I'll ask her if she would have that one if she was me."
Granny Robin quite approved of their plan, and of Stephen's choice of
the two grandchildren who died young. She told them that relict meant
the wife left behind, and tears came into the old woman's sightless
eyes, as she sat at her knitting and thought of the poor widow left
behind for forty-six years. She pictured her living on and on, year
after year, coming doubtless often to that grave to look at the place
where her John lay, but still kept waiting for forty-six years for the
glad day when she should see him again.
Granny Robin thought it must have seemed a longs dreary time to poor
Mary. And then, maybe, those two grandchildren were a cheer and comfort
to her. Yet they were taken, they died young, but old Mary still lived
on. Till at last, on that winter's day, January 20, 1827, the call,
so long waited for, came, and she and her John were together again.
Then, too, the old grandmother saw once more the faces of the two
grandchildren who died young.
So Granny Robin mused as she sat at her work; and she wondered whether
the waiting-time seemed as long to old Mary, as she looked back to it
from the brightness and the joy of the Home above, or did it seem short
as a troubled dream seems when we wake from sleep?
"Our light affliction, which is but for a moment."
So long, when we are passing through it; but for a moment, as we look
back to it from God's eternity.