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Show rCfJ doo from other editor Although Memorial Day Is past, the entire column this week Is given giv-en to an editorial entitled, "Country "Coun-try Cemetery on Memorial Day" ; which appeared in the Duncannon Record, Duncannon, Pennsylvania. The editorial is an example of the fine writing that often comes from . the pent of the nation's country editors: "Too far to walk, the heavy boots of armed men descend from autos pulled beneath the shading trees. The cemetery, dark, about the a tan side of a square held taut by men and women who were never there, but know the sadness that the battlefield has brought. The chaplain, eldest spokesman of the valley's church, opens the pages of his book to the place well-marked by thumb, and reads the passage there entombed . . . "Beneath a vivid sky, pockmarked pock-marked with cloud, the eye is caught and dilated by the sun and only sees the bright flag that ruffles with a curious-fingered breeze. The wooden church, stands hill-top high above the rolling meadow-land. And. out 'from town, the neighbors come by car, drawn here this slow Memorial Day with one accord to honor sons. The crisp grass, newly cut this morning by the deacon, : cushions the gentle tread of those returned these few sparse moments. "The color-guard pulls straps, and hitching belts, bring the Post's new polished guns to shoulder, From the thin line of hedge that holds the meadow from the citadel of shade, they move centrally, a vortex of khaki and white helmets, clumping in- self-conscious ranks toward the Soldiers' Plot. The bugler bu-gler slyly purses lip and touches horn to mouth in expectation. "SmaU boys whisper among the holung mounds and tow-heads ditto, dit-to, quizzically, the rain-washed ancient an-cient stones. Their voices hushed with awe waiting for the final punctuation of the service, they only hope to catch the spent brass casings from the guns, but know, withal, that something here is done too great for them to comprehend. "The sergeant barks a half-forgotten crder and the straggling line of men wavers to a halt, lined up atonp the open hollow of the Plot, whole world seems focused to the pin-point, here, of time. For a moment mo-ment those who stand in silence seem to capture all the knowledge of eternity. One brilliant moment, sticking from the stream of time as, moist black rock from brook, reveals the utter tragedy of man, and also the bittersweet of breath of life, Intermingled and demanding demand-ing and so full of all the answers that a few seconds later are lost in the onsweep of current. ... "The preacher brings voice to halt, and the honey-bee subsides, calling a draw. The soldier-ranks straighten slightly the small boys spit grass blades from green-stained green-stained teeth, and crouch eagerly. The order given, the guns point toward to-ward the sky and the scattered volley vol-ley echoes and echoes out over the wavering earthllne. The bugler chatters the first chord of Taps, and then, assured of noble ending, sweetly sighs the rest. "And the car-doors tear the silence si-lence with their clang, and motors brush the solitude before departing. depart-ing. The last blue-hazed smudge of gasoline disperses, and the Soldiers' Sol-diers' Plot, the turf-bound lot, the paint-flaked church settle, satisfied, satis-fied, to wait the next year out." |