A Christmas Eve Burial
A Stranger in a Strange Land,
But He Had a Christian Burial
Saturday before Christmas, a man who had lived out the allotted three score and ten, and somewhere on the march of life, had lost one of his legs, hobbled into Honey Grove. The wooden leg was a very crude affair—the old man had whittled it out himself—but it enabled him to get around. He was a typical tramp, unshaven and dirty, and must have lived on charity for some years since he had long been too old to work. The old fellow said he had been a printer, and called at the two printing shops in the town, where sufficient money was given him to buy a few scant meals. As he left the Signal office he told the one employee who was on duty that he felt that he was at his row's end —that he was without money and unable to work. As he passed out the door he told the employee he would never see him again. It appears that instead of buying food the old man bought drugs, and took an overdose with the intention of ending all. Soon he was found down on the streets, and in order to care for him, officers took him to jail. Later it was found that the old fellow had taken poison, and physicians were summoned. Men also went to his aid and ministered unto the sufferer as best they could until Sunday afternoon, when from the prison cell the spirit of the old man took its flight. No one here knew the old man. From him the information was gleaned that his name was Redmond and that he had no near relatives. The county would have furnished a pine box, as it does for other pauper dead, but the people said no—the stranger must have a decent burial. In a very few minutes sufficient funds were contributed to purchase a neat casket and the funeral car was tendered to convey the remains to the city of the great majority. Several men accompanied the bier to the cemetery, and at the grave Rev. S. R. Smith conducted an impressive funeral service. Then, with all tenderness and solemnity, a mound was raised above the stranger's remains and a wreath of greeneries was placed above the dust of the tired traveler, just as the joys of Christmas Eve were ushered into a waiting world.
We know nothing of him who has passed on. He may have been bad, he may have been a creature of unfortunate circumstances that left him little chance, little to hope for in the great battle of life. But we know that he was human, and that he was our brother. Doubtless in life's early morning he was given a mother's embrace, and a mother's kisses cured his little hurts and banished his little sorrows. Possibly he once had a wife to love, and children who anxiously waited for their sire’s return and “climbed his knees the honied kiss to share.” Mayhap these were taken away and left him with a crushed heart, never to hope again, and he became a wanderer upon the face of the earlh. No doubt the old fellow suffered much, and we know that his passing was a tragedy. But it is comforting to know that in his final extremity he found Good Samaritans, and that Christmas Eve was hallowed when he was given a decent Christian burial. And let us hope that from the prison cell his spirit went to the Mansions of Light.
A Stranger in a Strange Land,
But He Had a Christian Burial
Saturday before Christmas, a man who had lived out the allotted three score and ten, and somewhere on the march of life, had lost one of his legs, hobbled into Honey Grove. The wooden leg was a very crude affair—the old man had whittled it out himself—but it enabled him to get around. He was a typical tramp, unshaven and dirty, and must have lived on charity for some years since he had long been too old to work. The old fellow said he had been a printer, and called at the two printing shops in the town, where sufficient money was given him to buy a few scant meals. As he left the Signal office he told the one employee who was on duty that he felt that he was at his row's end —that he was without money and unable to work. As he passed out the door he told the employee he would never see him again. It appears that instead of buying food the old man bought drugs, and took an overdose with the intention of ending all. Soon he was found down on the streets, and in order to care for him, officers took him to jail. Later it was found that the old fellow had taken poison, and physicians were summoned. Men also went to his aid and ministered unto the sufferer as best they could until Sunday afternoon, when from the prison cell the spirit of the old man took its flight. No one here knew the old man. From him the information was gleaned that his name was Redmond and that he had no near relatives. The county would have furnished a pine box, as it does for other pauper dead, but the people said no—the stranger must have a decent burial. In a very few minutes sufficient funds were contributed to purchase a neat casket and the funeral car was tendered to convey the remains to the city of the great majority. Several men accompanied the bier to the cemetery, and at the grave Rev. S. R. Smith conducted an impressive funeral service. Then, with all tenderness and solemnity, a mound was raised above the stranger's remains and a wreath of greeneries was placed above the dust of the tired traveler, just as the joys of Christmas Eve were ushered into a waiting world.
We know nothing of him who has passed on. He may have been bad, he may have been a creature of unfortunate circumstances that left him little chance, little to hope for in the great battle of life. But we know that he was human, and that he was our brother. Doubtless in life's early morning he was given a mother's embrace, and a mother's kisses cured his little hurts and banished his little sorrows. Possibly he once had a wife to love, and children who anxiously waited for their sire’s return and “climbed his knees the honied kiss to share.” Mayhap these were taken away and left him with a crushed heart, never to hope again, and he became a wanderer upon the face of the earlh. No doubt the old fellow suffered much, and we know that his passing was a tragedy. But it is comforting to know that in his final extremity he found Good Samaritans, and that Christmas Eve was hallowed when he was given a decent Christian burial. And let us hope that from the prison cell his spirit went to the Mansions of Light.
A Christmas Eve Burial
A Stranger in a Strange Land,
But He Had a Christian Burial
Saturday before Christmas, a man who had lived out the allotted three score and ten, and somewhere on the march of life, had lost one of his legs, hobbled into Honey Grove. The wooden leg was a very crude affair—the old man had whittled it out himself—but it enabled him to get around. He was a typical tramp, unshaven and dirty, and must have lived on charity for some years since he had long been too old to work. The old fellow said he had been a printer, and called at the two printing shops in the town, where sufficient money was given him to buy a few scant meals. As he left the Signal office he told the one employee who was on duty that he felt that he was at his row's end —that he was without money and unable to work. As he passed out the door he told the employee he would never see him again. It appears that instead of buying food the old man bought drugs, and took an overdose with the intention of ending all. Soon he was found down on the streets, and in order to care for him, officers took him to jail. Later it was found that the old fellow had taken poison, and physicians were summoned. Men also went to his aid and ministered unto the sufferer as best they could until Sunday afternoon, when from the prison cell the spirit of the old man took its flight. No one here knew the old man. From him the information was gleaned that his name was Redmond and that he had no near relatives. The county would have furnished a pine box, as it does for other pauper dead, but the people said no—the stranger must have a decent burial. In a very few minutes sufficient funds were contributed to purchase a neat casket and the funeral car was tendered to convey the remains to the city of the great majority. Several men accompanied the bier to the cemetery, and at the grave Rev. S. R. Smith conducted an impressive funeral service. Then, with all tenderness and solemnity, a mound was raised above the stranger's remains and a wreath of greeneries was placed above the dust of the tired traveler, just as the joys of Christmas Eve were ushered into a waiting world.
We know nothing of him who has passed on. He may have been bad, he may have been a creature of unfortunate circumstances that left him little chance, little to hope for in the great battle of life. But we know that he was human, and that he was our brother. Doubtless in life's early morning he was given a mother's embrace, and a mother's kisses cured his little hurts and banished his little sorrows. Possibly he once had a wife to love, and children who anxiously waited for their sire’s return and “climbed his knees the honied kiss to share.” Mayhap these were taken away and left him with a crushed heart, never to hope again, and he became a wanderer upon the face of the earlh. No doubt the old fellow suffered much, and we know that his passing was a tragedy. But it is comforting to know that in his final extremity he found Good Samaritans, and that Christmas Eve was hallowed when he was given a decent Christian burial. And let us hope that from the prison cell his spirit went to the Mansions of Light.
A Stranger in a Strange Land,
But He Had a Christian Burial
Saturday before Christmas, a man who had lived out the allotted three score and ten, and somewhere on the march of life, had lost one of his legs, hobbled into Honey Grove. The wooden leg was a very crude affair—the old man had whittled it out himself—but it enabled him to get around. He was a typical tramp, unshaven and dirty, and must have lived on charity for some years since he had long been too old to work. The old fellow said he had been a printer, and called at the two printing shops in the town, where sufficient money was given him to buy a few scant meals. As he left the Signal office he told the one employee who was on duty that he felt that he was at his row's end —that he was without money and unable to work. As he passed out the door he told the employee he would never see him again. It appears that instead of buying food the old man bought drugs, and took an overdose with the intention of ending all. Soon he was found down on the streets, and in order to care for him, officers took him to jail. Later it was found that the old fellow had taken poison, and physicians were summoned. Men also went to his aid and ministered unto the sufferer as best they could until Sunday afternoon, when from the prison cell the spirit of the old man took its flight. No one here knew the old man. From him the information was gleaned that his name was Redmond and that he had no near relatives. The county would have furnished a pine box, as it does for other pauper dead, but the people said no—the stranger must have a decent burial. In a very few minutes sufficient funds were contributed to purchase a neat casket and the funeral car was tendered to convey the remains to the city of the great majority. Several men accompanied the bier to the cemetery, and at the grave Rev. S. R. Smith conducted an impressive funeral service. Then, with all tenderness and solemnity, a mound was raised above the stranger's remains and a wreath of greeneries was placed above the dust of the tired traveler, just as the joys of Christmas Eve were ushered into a waiting world.
We know nothing of him who has passed on. He may have been bad, he may have been a creature of unfortunate circumstances that left him little chance, little to hope for in the great battle of life. But we know that he was human, and that he was our brother. Doubtless in life's early morning he was given a mother's embrace, and a mother's kisses cured his little hurts and banished his little sorrows. Possibly he once had a wife to love, and children who anxiously waited for their sire’s return and “climbed his knees the honied kiss to share.” Mayhap these were taken away and left him with a crushed heart, never to hope again, and he became a wanderer upon the face of the earlh. No doubt the old fellow suffered much, and we know that his passing was a tragedy. But it is comforting to know that in his final extremity he found Good Samaritans, and that Christmas Eve was hallowed when he was given a decent Christian burial. And let us hope that from the prison cell his spirit went to the Mansions of Light.
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