A.H. Gruwell
Arizona Republican Newspaper
August 14, 1895
A.H. Gruwell, a miner employed at the Homestead Mine on Lynx Creek died tonight from injuries received Sunday night.
The brake on the hoist failed to work, allowing the heavy iron bucket used in raising ore to descend rapidly and in its descent struck Gruwell on the head, fracturing the skull and causing concussion of the brain.
Death notice from AZ paper provided by Sharla. Thank you so much, Sharla!!!
Poem written about Alfred's death in a mining accident in Arizona for his funeral:
Up from an Arizona Mine, strangers' hands bore one day,
The stalwart form of our Alfred, his young life ebbing away.
And strangers stood around him, and pitying stooped to hear,
The last words he ever uttered, the sad words of "Oh dear."
Then a brother knelt before him and a friend stood by his side,
There in that distant mining camp, they watch the slow hours glide.
They watch the young life pass out, and the bright hopes fade away,
Of a life which promised, promised much in its strength of yesterday.
Now these child-like blue eyes open and so wishfully glance around,
Till they rest at last on his brother's face, but the lips can make no sound.
Life struggles with death many weary hours and on the handsom brow,
Are the lines of pain suffering, brow so pale and death-like now.
Oh, beautiful dark eyed Nettie, how little you think this day.
That your lover lies bleeding dying in that land so far away.
In fancy you picture his home return, but the manly form lies low.
The blue eyes are closed and golden locks shade a forehead cold as snow.
Death has stilled the hand who for you would strew flowers along life's road,
And that strong arm that would gladly have carried the weight of life's load.
Little you think the sweet music of his kind voice we'll never more hear,
Or that dear familiar footstep that tells us that Alfred is near.
O'er the wire the tidings are coming home to break a father's heart,
That heart of whose every plan and hope this dying son is a part.
Bringing the sad news to mother who is waiting and longing each day,
To see the bright young faces of the boys who went away.
And that sweet and only sister, darling girl, whose life so fair,
Has not seen a passing shadow, has not known of pain or care.
Who can whisper words of comfort when they hear her piteous cry?
For that great true-hearted brother who so far from home must die.
Yes, Wilson, in fancy we see that hour when you sat by the dying alone,
So far from those that loved you, so far from mother and home.
But see the suffering is ended now the spirit has flown away,
And that smiling lip and palid brow, alas, are only clay.
But you'll bring the body home, Will, we'll look at the face of our dead;
At the hands that have toiled for the loved ones; the lips that but kind words
We'll think of the great hereafter; of the resurrection to come, (said,
When friends shall meet with loved ones and the righteous be gathered home.
Jessie B. Dixson
Berkeley, Iowa
Arizona Republican Newspaper
August 14, 1895
A.H. Gruwell, a miner employed at the Homestead Mine on Lynx Creek died tonight from injuries received Sunday night.
The brake on the hoist failed to work, allowing the heavy iron bucket used in raising ore to descend rapidly and in its descent struck Gruwell on the head, fracturing the skull and causing concussion of the brain.
Death notice from AZ paper provided by Sharla. Thank you so much, Sharla!!!
Poem written about Alfred's death in a mining accident in Arizona for his funeral:
Up from an Arizona Mine, strangers' hands bore one day,
The stalwart form of our Alfred, his young life ebbing away.
And strangers stood around him, and pitying stooped to hear,
The last words he ever uttered, the sad words of "Oh dear."
Then a brother knelt before him and a friend stood by his side,
There in that distant mining camp, they watch the slow hours glide.
They watch the young life pass out, and the bright hopes fade away,
Of a life which promised, promised much in its strength of yesterday.
Now these child-like blue eyes open and so wishfully glance around,
Till they rest at last on his brother's face, but the lips can make no sound.
Life struggles with death many weary hours and on the handsom brow,
Are the lines of pain suffering, brow so pale and death-like now.
Oh, beautiful dark eyed Nettie, how little you think this day.
That your lover lies bleeding dying in that land so far away.
In fancy you picture his home return, but the manly form lies low.
The blue eyes are closed and golden locks shade a forehead cold as snow.
Death has stilled the hand who for you would strew flowers along life's road,
And that strong arm that would gladly have carried the weight of life's load.
Little you think the sweet music of his kind voice we'll never more hear,
Or that dear familiar footstep that tells us that Alfred is near.
O'er the wire the tidings are coming home to break a father's heart,
That heart of whose every plan and hope this dying son is a part.
Bringing the sad news to mother who is waiting and longing each day,
To see the bright young faces of the boys who went away.
And that sweet and only sister, darling girl, whose life so fair,
Has not seen a passing shadow, has not known of pain or care.
Who can whisper words of comfort when they hear her piteous cry?
For that great true-hearted brother who so far from home must die.
Yes, Wilson, in fancy we see that hour when you sat by the dying alone,
So far from those that loved you, so far from mother and home.
But see the suffering is ended now the spirit has flown away,
And that smiling lip and palid brow, alas, are only clay.
But you'll bring the body home, Will, we'll look at the face of our dead;
At the hands that have toiled for the loved ones; the lips that but kind words
We'll think of the great hereafter; of the resurrection to come, (said,
When friends shall meet with loved ones and the righteous be gathered home.
Jessie B. Dixson
Berkeley, Iowa
A.H. Gruwell
Arizona Republican Newspaper
August 14, 1895
A.H. Gruwell, a miner employed at the Homestead Mine on Lynx Creek died tonight from injuries received Sunday night.
The brake on the hoist failed to work, allowing the heavy iron bucket used in raising ore to descend rapidly and in its descent struck Gruwell on the head, fracturing the skull and causing concussion of the brain.
Death notice from AZ paper provided by Sharla. Thank you so much, Sharla!!!
Poem written about Alfred's death in a mining accident in Arizona for his funeral:
Up from an Arizona Mine, strangers' hands bore one day,
The stalwart form of our Alfred, his young life ebbing away.
And strangers stood around him, and pitying stooped to hear,
The last words he ever uttered, the sad words of "Oh dear."
Then a brother knelt before him and a friend stood by his side,
There in that distant mining camp, they watch the slow hours glide.
They watch the young life pass out, and the bright hopes fade away,
Of a life which promised, promised much in its strength of yesterday.
Now these child-like blue eyes open and so wishfully glance around,
Till they rest at last on his brother's face, but the lips can make no sound.
Life struggles with death many weary hours and on the handsom brow,
Are the lines of pain suffering, brow so pale and death-like now.
Oh, beautiful dark eyed Nettie, how little you think this day.
That your lover lies bleeding dying in that land so far away.
In fancy you picture his home return, but the manly form lies low.
The blue eyes are closed and golden locks shade a forehead cold as snow.
Death has stilled the hand who for you would strew flowers along life's road,
And that strong arm that would gladly have carried the weight of life's load.
Little you think the sweet music of his kind voice we'll never more hear,
Or that dear familiar footstep that tells us that Alfred is near.
O'er the wire the tidings are coming home to break a father's heart,
That heart of whose every plan and hope this dying son is a part.
Bringing the sad news to mother who is waiting and longing each day,
To see the bright young faces of the boys who went away.
And that sweet and only sister, darling girl, whose life so fair,
Has not seen a passing shadow, has not known of pain or care.
Who can whisper words of comfort when they hear her piteous cry?
For that great true-hearted brother who so far from home must die.
Yes, Wilson, in fancy we see that hour when you sat by the dying alone,
So far from those that loved you, so far from mother and home.
But see the suffering is ended now the spirit has flown away,
And that smiling lip and palid brow, alas, are only clay.
But you'll bring the body home, Will, we'll look at the face of our dead;
At the hands that have toiled for the loved ones; the lips that but kind words
We'll think of the great hereafter; of the resurrection to come, (said,
When friends shall meet with loved ones and the righteous be gathered home.
Jessie B. Dixson
Berkeley, Iowa
Arizona Republican Newspaper
August 14, 1895
A.H. Gruwell, a miner employed at the Homestead Mine on Lynx Creek died tonight from injuries received Sunday night.
The brake on the hoist failed to work, allowing the heavy iron bucket used in raising ore to descend rapidly and in its descent struck Gruwell on the head, fracturing the skull and causing concussion of the brain.
Death notice from AZ paper provided by Sharla. Thank you so much, Sharla!!!
Poem written about Alfred's death in a mining accident in Arizona for his funeral:
Up from an Arizona Mine, strangers' hands bore one day,
The stalwart form of our Alfred, his young life ebbing away.
And strangers stood around him, and pitying stooped to hear,
The last words he ever uttered, the sad words of "Oh dear."
Then a brother knelt before him and a friend stood by his side,
There in that distant mining camp, they watch the slow hours glide.
They watch the young life pass out, and the bright hopes fade away,
Of a life which promised, promised much in its strength of yesterday.
Now these child-like blue eyes open and so wishfully glance around,
Till they rest at last on his brother's face, but the lips can make no sound.
Life struggles with death many weary hours and on the handsom brow,
Are the lines of pain suffering, brow so pale and death-like now.
Oh, beautiful dark eyed Nettie, how little you think this day.
That your lover lies bleeding dying in that land so far away.
In fancy you picture his home return, but the manly form lies low.
The blue eyes are closed and golden locks shade a forehead cold as snow.
Death has stilled the hand who for you would strew flowers along life's road,
And that strong arm that would gladly have carried the weight of life's load.
Little you think the sweet music of his kind voice we'll never more hear,
Or that dear familiar footstep that tells us that Alfred is near.
O'er the wire the tidings are coming home to break a father's heart,
That heart of whose every plan and hope this dying son is a part.
Bringing the sad news to mother who is waiting and longing each day,
To see the bright young faces of the boys who went away.
And that sweet and only sister, darling girl, whose life so fair,
Has not seen a passing shadow, has not known of pain or care.
Who can whisper words of comfort when they hear her piteous cry?
For that great true-hearted brother who so far from home must die.
Yes, Wilson, in fancy we see that hour when you sat by the dying alone,
So far from those that loved you, so far from mother and home.
But see the suffering is ended now the spirit has flown away,
And that smiling lip and palid brow, alas, are only clay.
But you'll bring the body home, Will, we'll look at the face of our dead;
At the hands that have toiled for the loved ones; the lips that but kind words
We'll think of the great hereafter; of the resurrection to come, (said,
When friends shall meet with loved ones and the righteous be gathered home.
Jessie B. Dixson
Berkeley, Iowa
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