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We learn from the obelisk reared to the sky, Resplendent in grandeur, impressing the eye,

That a lofty man lies in the clay damp and cold, If we read the inscription in letters of gold;

The plot claims attention, the grass is kept shorn, The sweet blooming flowers are trained to adorn. The neat iron railing, loop, tassel and fret, Are painted and varnished the colour of jet; The lilac in season of beauteous bloom Ne'er fails to contribute her fragrant perfume.

We turn to the other, neglected it stands

And hence to its fellow more beauty it lends: The mound it has settled, the slab has a lean, While round it the weeds in profusion are seen,

Which seem as they sway by the autumn wind blown, In affection to burnish the face of the stone, O'er the grave of a poor simple knight of the soil Released from his thraldom of trouble and toil, Who played well his part when the country was young, And now lies forgotten, unhonoured, unsung.

—M. McGillivray

Here and there through these stories reference has been made to occasions, when in summer's heat or winter's cold the first settlers laid the bodies of their loved ones in ground forever hallowed by the labours of the dead and the living. In many cases these burials marked the beginning of cemeteries that have since been maintained by descendants of the original settlers who still live in the neighbourhood. In cases without number a different story must be told. Some of those who died in the early days were without relatives in this country and no one was left, even from the first, to care for the lonely graves in which they were laid. A typical case was that of which

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