From Higbee News transcribed by Kathy Bowlin
Friday, 6 Nov 1914--BYRD BURTON DEAD--Byrd Burton died at his home in this place Thursday night, Oct 29, after a protracted illness, aged 55 years. Funeral services were held at the Christian church Saturday by Rev. A. N. Lindsey and interment made in the Burton cemetery. An extended notice which was to have been furnished us for this week had not been handed in at the hour of going to press, and we had not the time or the data at hand to write one instead. We hope to have the article for next week.
Friday, 13 Nov 1914--AT REST--Died, Thursday Oct 29, at his home near Higbee, in the 55th year of his age, Byrd Burton. (poem) After life's fitful fever, sleeps one of earth's noblemen. His remains were placed in casket bearing the appropriate words "At Rest" and were followed by a throng of sorrowing friends, relatives and members of the K. of P. lodge to the Christian church, where funeral services were conducted by Rev. A. N. Lindsey--a beautiful and earnest address, offering words of healing and comfort to the bruised and stricken heart of his dear wife. From the church his body was borne to the family burying ground where it was laid to rest among the deer ones who had gone before. Byrd Burton was born in Randolph Co, near Higbee, at the old Burton homestead, on Dec 26, 1859. From early childhood he displayed a very human and lovable nature. He grew to manhood in the old home where the character and ideals of his father and mother made a lasting imprint on his own nature. While still a young man he was married to Miss Janie Gibson of near Clifton Hill, Mo. Of this union an only son, Odus, was born. With his wife and little boy he moved to Cape Girardeau, where he was employed for many years by the T. J. Moss Tie Co. After years of experience along the Mississippi River, it naturally followed that he became interested in steamboats. The next twenty years of his life were spent in steamboating on the Mississippi, Ohio and Tennessee rivers. As captain of the steamer Chester, he ran between St. Louis and Cape Girardeau until the boat was sold and placed on the Missouri, making several trips between Kansas City and St. Louis. As a steamboat captain, his life was a varied and interesting one. He met, mingled and dealt with "all sorts and conditions of men." Deck-hand, roustabout, pilot, clerk, mate or passenger--each man he met aroused in him a keen interest. He knew the life stories of them all and was ever ready with a word of sympathy for the fellow in hard luck. His purse was always opened by the plea of poverty or misfortune. His many deeds of charity were known to but few people. About seven years ago the greatest misfortune of his life befell him, in the death of his only son, Odus, the very idol of his heart. In a day, he was changed to a sad and sober man, bowed by grief and clinging to his dear companion for comfort and support. Months passed in his struggle with his great sorrow. At times he was almost overcome by it, but at the end of a year he emerged to take up his life again in the busy world. Only those very near to him ever knew of the great fight his soul had fought and won. After the death of his father, when the old home was about to be broken up, he bought an interest in the farm and came home to stay--came home to the old town, the old church, the old house, that he had never been able to forget in all the years of a busy and active life. How dear to his heart were the scenes of his childhood! How he cherished and treasured the traditions of that old home! He strove to make of it the same home he had known as a boy--a home of laughter and good cheer. Big dinners, crowds of relatives and friends, music and conversation was the order of the day. At last he was happy and content, and he settled himself in the old home, to live the long years before him in peace. But fate said "No." A few months ago he was stricken by disease. Cancer of the stomach developed. Weak and wasted, he sought the aid of the best physicians he knew. He would not die. Hope was strong in his man's soul. But one day he looked into the eyes of his wife, and there he read the pitiful truth. "I want to go home to die" were his words. For two more weeks he suffered, clinging to life as long as possible, yet bowing at last to the inevitable. One by one he called his brothers and sisters to his bedside, and said the affectionate words he had only thought before. He called for the songs he loved, and asked for prayers. He had the doors thrown open that he might behold the golden sunlight and the earth clothed in the scarlet glory of Autumn. "What a beautiful day to die" he said. His suffering was soon to end, for in the moonlight stillness of that October night, his soul took its flight. After a day of great pain he went to sleep--"not like the quarry slave scourged to his dungeon, but like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." Of the beautiful and matchless devotion of his grief stricken wife, too much cannot be said. It was hers to stand dry-eyes beside his bed, when her heart was breaking, to encourage when she had no hope, to look for light where all was darkness ahead, and at last, in the still watches of the night, to pray for his dead soul. "Soothed and sustained by an unfaltering trust," she looks to God for comfort. No need now to pray for Byrd for she knows that after life's stormy voyage his soul has at last reached a safe harbor, in The Beautiful Isle of Somewhere. C. W. T. H.
Friday, 6 Nov 1914--BYRD BURTON DEAD--Byrd Burton died at his home in this place Thursday night, Oct 29, after a protracted illness, aged 55 years. Funeral services were held at the Christian church Saturday by Rev. A. N. Lindsey and interment made in the Burton cemetery. An extended notice which was to have been furnished us for this week had not been handed in at the hour of going to press, and we had not the time or the data at hand to write one instead. We hope to have the article for next week.
Friday, 13 Nov 1914--AT REST--Died, Thursday Oct 29, at his home near Higbee, in the 55th year of his age, Byrd Burton. (poem) After life's fitful fever, sleeps one of earth's noblemen. His remains were placed in casket bearing the appropriate words "At Rest" and were followed by a throng of sorrowing friends, relatives and members of the K. of P. lodge to the Christian church, where funeral services were conducted by Rev. A. N. Lindsey--a beautiful and earnest address, offering words of healing and comfort to the bruised and stricken heart of his dear wife. From the church his body was borne to the family burying ground where it was laid to rest among the deer ones who had gone before. Byrd Burton was born in Randolph Co, near Higbee, at the old Burton homestead, on Dec 26, 1859. From early childhood he displayed a very human and lovable nature. He grew to manhood in the old home where the character and ideals of his father and mother made a lasting imprint on his own nature. While still a young man he was married to Miss Janie Gibson of near Clifton Hill, Mo. Of this union an only son, Odus, was born. With his wife and little boy he moved to Cape Girardeau, where he was employed for many years by the T. J. Moss Tie Co. After years of experience along the Mississippi River, it naturally followed that he became interested in steamboats. The next twenty years of his life were spent in steamboating on the Mississippi, Ohio and Tennessee rivers. As captain of the steamer Chester, he ran between St. Louis and Cape Girardeau until the boat was sold and placed on the Missouri, making several trips between Kansas City and St. Louis. As a steamboat captain, his life was a varied and interesting one. He met, mingled and dealt with "all sorts and conditions of men." Deck-hand, roustabout, pilot, clerk, mate or passenger--each man he met aroused in him a keen interest. He knew the life stories of them all and was ever ready with a word of sympathy for the fellow in hard luck. His purse was always opened by the plea of poverty or misfortune. His many deeds of charity were known to but few people. About seven years ago the greatest misfortune of his life befell him, in the death of his only son, Odus, the very idol of his heart. In a day, he was changed to a sad and sober man, bowed by grief and clinging to his dear companion for comfort and support. Months passed in his struggle with his great sorrow. At times he was almost overcome by it, but at the end of a year he emerged to take up his life again in the busy world. Only those very near to him ever knew of the great fight his soul had fought and won. After the death of his father, when the old home was about to be broken up, he bought an interest in the farm and came home to stay--came home to the old town, the old church, the old house, that he had never been able to forget in all the years of a busy and active life. How dear to his heart were the scenes of his childhood! How he cherished and treasured the traditions of that old home! He strove to make of it the same home he had known as a boy--a home of laughter and good cheer. Big dinners, crowds of relatives and friends, music and conversation was the order of the day. At last he was happy and content, and he settled himself in the old home, to live the long years before him in peace. But fate said "No." A few months ago he was stricken by disease. Cancer of the stomach developed. Weak and wasted, he sought the aid of the best physicians he knew. He would not die. Hope was strong in his man's soul. But one day he looked into the eyes of his wife, and there he read the pitiful truth. "I want to go home to die" were his words. For two more weeks he suffered, clinging to life as long as possible, yet bowing at last to the inevitable. One by one he called his brothers and sisters to his bedside, and said the affectionate words he had only thought before. He called for the songs he loved, and asked for prayers. He had the doors thrown open that he might behold the golden sunlight and the earth clothed in the scarlet glory of Autumn. "What a beautiful day to die" he said. His suffering was soon to end, for in the moonlight stillness of that October night, his soul took its flight. After a day of great pain he went to sleep--"not like the quarry slave scourged to his dungeon, but like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." Of the beautiful and matchless devotion of his grief stricken wife, too much cannot be said. It was hers to stand dry-eyes beside his bed, when her heart was breaking, to encourage when she had no hope, to look for light where all was darkness ahead, and at last, in the still watches of the night, to pray for his dead soul. "Soothed and sustained by an unfaltering trust," she looks to God for comfort. No need now to pray for Byrd for she knows that after life's stormy voyage his soul has at last reached a safe harbor, in The Beautiful Isle of Somewhere. C. W. T. H.
From Higbee News transcribed by Kathy Bowlin
Friday, 6 Nov 1914--BYRD BURTON DEAD--Byrd Burton died at his home in this place Thursday night, Oct 29, after a protracted illness, aged 55 years. Funeral services were held at the Christian church Saturday by Rev. A. N. Lindsey and interment made in the Burton cemetery. An extended notice which was to have been furnished us for this week had not been handed in at the hour of going to press, and we had not the time or the data at hand to write one instead. We hope to have the article for next week.
Friday, 13 Nov 1914--AT REST--Died, Thursday Oct 29, at his home near Higbee, in the 55th year of his age, Byrd Burton. (poem) After life's fitful fever, sleeps one of earth's noblemen. His remains were placed in casket bearing the appropriate words "At Rest" and were followed by a throng of sorrowing friends, relatives and members of the K. of P. lodge to the Christian church, where funeral services were conducted by Rev. A. N. Lindsey--a beautiful and earnest address, offering words of healing and comfort to the bruised and stricken heart of his dear wife. From the church his body was borne to the family burying ground where it was laid to rest among the deer ones who had gone before. Byrd Burton was born in Randolph Co, near Higbee, at the old Burton homestead, on Dec 26, 1859. From early childhood he displayed a very human and lovable nature. He grew to manhood in the old home where the character and ideals of his father and mother made a lasting imprint on his own nature. While still a young man he was married to Miss Janie Gibson of near Clifton Hill, Mo. Of this union an only son, Odus, was born. With his wife and little boy he moved to Cape Girardeau, where he was employed for many years by the T. J. Moss Tie Co. After years of experience along the Mississippi River, it naturally followed that he became interested in steamboats. The next twenty years of his life were spent in steamboating on the Mississippi, Ohio and Tennessee rivers. As captain of the steamer Chester, he ran between St. Louis and Cape Girardeau until the boat was sold and placed on the Missouri, making several trips between Kansas City and St. Louis. As a steamboat captain, his life was a varied and interesting one. He met, mingled and dealt with "all sorts and conditions of men." Deck-hand, roustabout, pilot, clerk, mate or passenger--each man he met aroused in him a keen interest. He knew the life stories of them all and was ever ready with a word of sympathy for the fellow in hard luck. His purse was always opened by the plea of poverty or misfortune. His many deeds of charity were known to but few people. About seven years ago the greatest misfortune of his life befell him, in the death of his only son, Odus, the very idol of his heart. In a day, he was changed to a sad and sober man, bowed by grief and clinging to his dear companion for comfort and support. Months passed in his struggle with his great sorrow. At times he was almost overcome by it, but at the end of a year he emerged to take up his life again in the busy world. Only those very near to him ever knew of the great fight his soul had fought and won. After the death of his father, when the old home was about to be broken up, he bought an interest in the farm and came home to stay--came home to the old town, the old church, the old house, that he had never been able to forget in all the years of a busy and active life. How dear to his heart were the scenes of his childhood! How he cherished and treasured the traditions of that old home! He strove to make of it the same home he had known as a boy--a home of laughter and good cheer. Big dinners, crowds of relatives and friends, music and conversation was the order of the day. At last he was happy and content, and he settled himself in the old home, to live the long years before him in peace. But fate said "No." A few months ago he was stricken by disease. Cancer of the stomach developed. Weak and wasted, he sought the aid of the best physicians he knew. He would not die. Hope was strong in his man's soul. But one day he looked into the eyes of his wife, and there he read the pitiful truth. "I want to go home to die" were his words. For two more weeks he suffered, clinging to life as long as possible, yet bowing at last to the inevitable. One by one he called his brothers and sisters to his bedside, and said the affectionate words he had only thought before. He called for the songs he loved, and asked for prayers. He had the doors thrown open that he might behold the golden sunlight and the earth clothed in the scarlet glory of Autumn. "What a beautiful day to die" he said. His suffering was soon to end, for in the moonlight stillness of that October night, his soul took its flight. After a day of great pain he went to sleep--"not like the quarry slave scourged to his dungeon, but like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." Of the beautiful and matchless devotion of his grief stricken wife, too much cannot be said. It was hers to stand dry-eyes beside his bed, when her heart was breaking, to encourage when she had no hope, to look for light where all was darkness ahead, and at last, in the still watches of the night, to pray for his dead soul. "Soothed and sustained by an unfaltering trust," she looks to God for comfort. No need now to pray for Byrd for she knows that after life's stormy voyage his soul has at last reached a safe harbor, in The Beautiful Isle of Somewhere. C. W. T. H.
Friday, 6 Nov 1914--BYRD BURTON DEAD--Byrd Burton died at his home in this place Thursday night, Oct 29, after a protracted illness, aged 55 years. Funeral services were held at the Christian church Saturday by Rev. A. N. Lindsey and interment made in the Burton cemetery. An extended notice which was to have been furnished us for this week had not been handed in at the hour of going to press, and we had not the time or the data at hand to write one instead. We hope to have the article for next week.
Friday, 13 Nov 1914--AT REST--Died, Thursday Oct 29, at his home near Higbee, in the 55th year of his age, Byrd Burton. (poem) After life's fitful fever, sleeps one of earth's noblemen. His remains were placed in casket bearing the appropriate words "At Rest" and were followed by a throng of sorrowing friends, relatives and members of the K. of P. lodge to the Christian church, where funeral services were conducted by Rev. A. N. Lindsey--a beautiful and earnest address, offering words of healing and comfort to the bruised and stricken heart of his dear wife. From the church his body was borne to the family burying ground where it was laid to rest among the deer ones who had gone before. Byrd Burton was born in Randolph Co, near Higbee, at the old Burton homestead, on Dec 26, 1859. From early childhood he displayed a very human and lovable nature. He grew to manhood in the old home where the character and ideals of his father and mother made a lasting imprint on his own nature. While still a young man he was married to Miss Janie Gibson of near Clifton Hill, Mo. Of this union an only son, Odus, was born. With his wife and little boy he moved to Cape Girardeau, where he was employed for many years by the T. J. Moss Tie Co. After years of experience along the Mississippi River, it naturally followed that he became interested in steamboats. The next twenty years of his life were spent in steamboating on the Mississippi, Ohio and Tennessee rivers. As captain of the steamer Chester, he ran between St. Louis and Cape Girardeau until the boat was sold and placed on the Missouri, making several trips between Kansas City and St. Louis. As a steamboat captain, his life was a varied and interesting one. He met, mingled and dealt with "all sorts and conditions of men." Deck-hand, roustabout, pilot, clerk, mate or passenger--each man he met aroused in him a keen interest. He knew the life stories of them all and was ever ready with a word of sympathy for the fellow in hard luck. His purse was always opened by the plea of poverty or misfortune. His many deeds of charity were known to but few people. About seven years ago the greatest misfortune of his life befell him, in the death of his only son, Odus, the very idol of his heart. In a day, he was changed to a sad and sober man, bowed by grief and clinging to his dear companion for comfort and support. Months passed in his struggle with his great sorrow. At times he was almost overcome by it, but at the end of a year he emerged to take up his life again in the busy world. Only those very near to him ever knew of the great fight his soul had fought and won. After the death of his father, when the old home was about to be broken up, he bought an interest in the farm and came home to stay--came home to the old town, the old church, the old house, that he had never been able to forget in all the years of a busy and active life. How dear to his heart were the scenes of his childhood! How he cherished and treasured the traditions of that old home! He strove to make of it the same home he had known as a boy--a home of laughter and good cheer. Big dinners, crowds of relatives and friends, music and conversation was the order of the day. At last he was happy and content, and he settled himself in the old home, to live the long years before him in peace. But fate said "No." A few months ago he was stricken by disease. Cancer of the stomach developed. Weak and wasted, he sought the aid of the best physicians he knew. He would not die. Hope was strong in his man's soul. But one day he looked into the eyes of his wife, and there he read the pitiful truth. "I want to go home to die" were his words. For two more weeks he suffered, clinging to life as long as possible, yet bowing at last to the inevitable. One by one he called his brothers and sisters to his bedside, and said the affectionate words he had only thought before. He called for the songs he loved, and asked for prayers. He had the doors thrown open that he might behold the golden sunlight and the earth clothed in the scarlet glory of Autumn. "What a beautiful day to die" he said. His suffering was soon to end, for in the moonlight stillness of that October night, his soul took its flight. After a day of great pain he went to sleep--"not like the quarry slave scourged to his dungeon, but like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." Of the beautiful and matchless devotion of his grief stricken wife, too much cannot be said. It was hers to stand dry-eyes beside his bed, when her heart was breaking, to encourage when she had no hope, to look for light where all was darkness ahead, and at last, in the still watches of the night, to pray for his dead soul. "Soothed and sustained by an unfaltering trust," she looks to God for comfort. No need now to pray for Byrd for she knows that after life's stormy voyage his soul has at last reached a safe harbor, in The Beautiful Isle of Somewhere. C. W. T. H.
Family Members
Siblings
Half Siblings
Children
Sponsored by Ancestry
Advertisement
Advertisement
