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Show Memorial Day. It has come again. The day when the nation pauses in its work and goes out to dress with flowers the graves of Its dead. It is a sacred custom. The dead do not need it, the living do. Life's journey is a short one at best. Men need reminders of that truth. Nations rest upon the pr ess and patriotism of their people, and when in a crisis the youngest and bravest of the land go out and make their breasts a living wall between their country and their country's foes; they living or dead should always be the concernment con-cernment of their countrymen. And when they have fallen into their final sleep, for those who remain on stated occasions to dress their lowly couches with flowers, becomes not only a gracious act, but a duty. And when it is done with tender hands and loving hearts, it in truth becomes an all hail of the living to the dead and the thrill of it must break upon the shores of the Beyond in music. There are but few people who do not believe be-lieve that their souls are Immortal. If that is true, then they have always lived, and always will. Looked upon in that light then the sleepers in the graves are not dead, only their baser environments en-vironments have been laid there. They are somewhere some-where else and if so when Memorial day comes, they must be near. Our dull eyes may not see the shining ranks or the flashing flags, our dull ears may not hear the bugles or the rolling drums, but it is easy to imagine that the pomp above us is far more splendid than anything that dull mortality mor-tality can prepare. In that light, the memories of the dead are living liv-ing memories. Those who remain of the armies of 1861-64 are growing fewer and fewer. Their forms are bent, -their steps are halting and slow and every year when the solemn roll is called, less and less respond. But there is a thought in this that thrills one. As they grow fewer and fewer here, the ranks In the Beyond are filling. And there all stains are wiped away, all infirmities, the old splendor is restored to them, and Elysian fields is their parade ground. And we may believe that on Memorial day they stand at attention with flags turned to gold in the clear light there, and that soft music is being played, for the perfume of the flowers that are laid upon their graves becomes incense and is wafted away to them. We read that man's place is but a little lower than the angels. If this is true, then they are not so far away. They are hidden from our dull senses. We cannot see the flags or hear the trumpet calls, but that is no sign that the flags are not waving, or that the trumpets are not sounding. And those who were not soldiers are watching, too, to see if they are still remembered, and to hearts here that have been rent when loved ones have been taken away, to dress those loved ones' graves is a sacred pleasure, it is in the language of flowers whispering whis-pering one more good night to them. Memorial day is the most sacred of all the days of the year; its observance marks a new advance in civilization; it is a notice that the wireless telegraphy tele-graphy of the soul is sending its messages to the far off shore upon which the waves of time break and are shattered. We believe those messages are received and that the air of summer land grows softer as they are read. |