LeMars Semi-Weekly Sentinel
May 30, 1911
WILL DECORATE GRAVES
Many Who Served in War Lie in This Graveyard
This is Decoration Day and the graves of departed soldiers who served in the Civil War will be decorated by their relatives and friends. Tears will be shed and a tribute paid to the memory of the departed, but that they fought nobly and well and answered the call of their stricken country’s need in the hour of danger is a lasting solace and a healing balm to those they left behind. The usual program will be carried out, the procession leaving Main street at nine o’clock. The following graves will be strewn with flowers:
| James Britt | Thos. Tracy |
| A. Scroll | L. M. Gardner |
| M. Lewis | A. Foster |
| L. M. Doty | Wm. Swanzy |
| Clem Hausmann | B. F. Mudge |
| John Tovy | P. Calinger |
| John Conroy | J. Patterson |
| Owen Murphy | D. W. Clarke |
| S. J. Sullivan | Sam Ambrose |
| H. J. Calighan | Frank Amos |
| Wm. Miller | Wm. Dixon |
| Geo. Heyl | Chas. Young |
| Dave Marchent | H. Darville |
| C. M. Schutt | Denis Morley |
| Ed. Burke | Geo. Rainboth |
| S. Nash | J. Rainboth |
| J. B. Manderville | Frank Brown |
| H. C. Wescot | Col. H. Clarke |
| R. H. Jacobs | W. Hasbrook |
| D. W. Chamberlain | A. P. Brown |
| J. C. Ball | I. T. Martin |
| H. Rose | B. Baker |
| A. F. Brown | I. Munson |
| H. C. Coville | H. W. Wilcox |
| A. J. Riffle | Capt. Stebbins |
| T. S. White | Chris. Bauerly |
| H. Woolworth | Chas. Beuttner |
| R. Ramsey | John Balsinger |
| S. W. Porter | C. S. Sydenstricker |
| Fred Wood | Solomon Crow |
| Wm. Love | Lewis Crow |
| Robert McGee | Jas. McDougall |
| Geo. Hamm | E. Rathbun |
| E. H. Mead | W. M. Swomley |
| A. Dresser | E. Higday |
| J. H. Brown | A. Schofield |
| Dan Padmore | A. Clay |
THE FOUR YEARS STRIFE
SCENES OF WORLD’S GREATEST CONFLICT REVIEWED
SAD MEMORIES ARE RECALLED
Veterans of Mower Post, G. A. R. and Women of the Relief Corps Hold Services at Opera House in Honor of Heroic Dead
An audience that filled the large auditorium gathered at the Opera House at 10:30 Sunday morning to have its part in the tribute there paid to the valiant soldiers who risked their all for their country. The services were in charge of Mower Post, No. 91, G. A. R., and the Post members and W. R. C. occupied seats near the stage. The Opera House was beautifully decorated with flags and bunting in the National colors, and on either side of the stage opening were pictures of Washington and Lincoln.
Post Commander, W. S. Freeman, presided. After the invocation by Rev. G. C. Butler, Misses Hinds and Gross and Messrs. Dinkeloo and Haas sang, “Covered With Glory They Sleep.” The Scripture reading by Prof. Thomas and prayer by Rev. followed, after which the quartette rendered, “Rest, Soldiers Rest.” Both numbers by the quartette were well received. After announcements by the various pastors, Miss Edith Gerling gave a reading particularly appropriate to the occasion.
Supt. Palmer delivered the address, which was a fitting tribute to patriotism and the valor of the men whom on Memorial Day we honor and whose virtues we praise. He said in part:
Veterans, as I see your rally around the flag for the honor of which your many comrades in many fields are lying wrapped in cerements of honor and for the glory of which you are here to day with memories that knock with their hundred hands at the doors of your hearts; and as I behold the homage you pay that glorious emblem and the reverence with which you salute it, I am forced to exclaim, “Behold how they love it!” And as in musing mood, I kept asking why, there flashed across my vision an answer to the question and I saw a band of 88 men defending a small fort two miles at sea. I could seem to hear the cannon’s roar. Day after day I could seem to see the contest go on, until at last the Stars and Stripes, that ensign of equality and union throughout the whole world, that emblem of peace and liberty and freedom to all nations, was lowered in capitulation. And then the scene shifts, I seemed to see a “Kindly, brave, foreseeing man, sagacious, patient, dreading praise not blame, new birth of our new soil, the first American” take his pen in hand to write the words that called you to arms. I could see thousands of men come answering their country’s call—you were of that number; all the dead whose graves in the ten thousand cemeteries will be decorated this week—coming from the farm, the counting room, the workshop, the factory and the mill. I see them taking their last farewell of loved ones. Some, like Hector before going to battle, are looking for the last time into the eyes of cherished childhood; some are trying to speak words of cheer and comfort to wives whose plighted faith and love have always been a baptism of strength and power; some are feeling the embrace of mother-love, while the heart beats thoughts too deep for words, ah! Too deep for tears; some are walking in shaded lanes whispering vows of eternal love as they reluctantly part forever; others are receiving the blessings of fathers and the caressing of sisters, the benedictions of friends. I see them march away, sorrowful yet noble, saddened and inspired.
And time after time, my friends, was this picture flashed upon the loyal hearts of the North until 2,200,000 men had left home and loved ones to enter the service of their country.
We go with them. We see the battle set in array; we hear the commands of officers; we feel the earth tremble with the tramp of men and horses as they go hurrying past; we see the breaking of the storm, the dashing of the tempest, the earth vomiting its fire; we hear the groans of the wounded; we count the death in tens and hundred as
“Onward still the squadrons thunder, men and horses without number, all the furrowed ground encumber, falling fast to their last slumber—bloody slumber—bloody grave!”
For four long years this terrible strife goes on, until thousands of men have said as one young soldier, who seeing the carnage all about him, hearing the groans of the dying, beholding the ground covered with the blood of his comrades, and then feeling his soul fill with the sentiments of a lofty patriotism, said, “I am willing, ah! We are all willing that out bodies should form the bridges over which humanity may cross to greater freedom.” In that spirit your comrades, veterans gave their lives; in that spirit you went forth to the defense of your country. We read the names of Vicksburg and Gettysburg; of Lookout Mountain and Shiloh, of Wilderness and Antietam; of Bull Run and Mobile; of Fredericksburg and Shiloh; of a hundred or more other fields where today the silent tents of a nation’s honored dead are spread. We go with these soldiers in victory and defeat; we picture them in camp and field; we see them in sickness and health; until at last the curtain is drawn at Appomattox and we see a silent man writing the generous terms for the surrender of a gallant foe. And then home they come, sobered by the baptism of fired they have passed through, strong in the consciousness of a worthy cause, manly in the cause they have espoused, great in the deeds they have done, glorious in the victories they have won, immortal in the sacrifice they have made. We hear the shouts of the people, the pealing of the bells, the beating of the drums as homeward they came. We see husbands and wives again united, with souls closely knit by the struggles of the past; fathers and children once more to sound the notes of triumph and victory, tell also the story of a nation’s mighty loss. There were fathers and sons and brothers and lovers and husbands without number who never came back. Rachel was “weeping for her children and refused to be comforted because they were not.” The Angel of Death had entered many a home; war had demanded half a million as the price of union, but the Angel not yet satisfied demanded that the mightiest ruler of men the world has ever known should pass over to joining the army of celestial. When Lincoln fell, joy was turned into mourning; beauty into ashes; the oil of gladness into the spirit of sadness.
And what mighty hearts rise up out of the past to claim the memories of this day!
To read their history is to feel the blood tingle with a new patriotism; to listen to the story of their suffering is to be inspired with a new zeal for the rights of mankind; to stand firmly upon the foundations that they laid is to feel the strength of right, afraid of nothing but slavery and bondage.
The men of 1812 are there resplendent with the glory of a righteous cause, garlanded with the wreaths of a nation’s honor.
The veterans of ’46 are there, great in their devotion to the Union they loved so well.
Your comrades are there, purified and sanctified. Having passed through the fires that were lighted to keep the old Ship of State from the rocks, they are embalmed in a nation’s love; their names are inscribed on the scroll of immortality. They died for their country, and whose record can be made more sure. They dared to stand by truth where craven churls derided her, “to front a lie in arms and not to yield.” It is said that when a certain great artist came to paint the portrait of Alexander the Great he represented him with his head resting upon the hand in order to cover up a scar that the great general bore. No need of that in painting the picture of your comrades. Their scars shine like stars. They heard the cries of the Nation’s anguish and they flew to her relief unmindful of the cost; they saw the signals of the Republic’s distress and they came to the rescue. They stood like heroes in the hour of deadly peril. Dead did you say? Is Lincoln dead? Is Grant dead? Is Sherman dead? Are any of the patriots, your comrades, who wore the honored blue, who stood firm and true, who were dressed in the garments of loyalty, dead? The flowers in ten thousand cemeteries; the sacred traditions of a people’s firesides, the thousand monuments pointing Heavenward, your own hearts answer, “No.”
We who have never passed through the experiences of war with its memories and influences need this day. We need it to help us preserve in peace the noble work that you have accomplished in war. When I say you I mean these mothers and sisters who passed through the darkest days of rebellion. Theirs was a noble part. Their fortitude and bravery was scarcely less than yours. Their loyalty was an inspiration to you. They too served their country. We need this day to remind us that life is more than meat and the body more than raiment. We need it to keep fresh in our minds our debt to you who are still among us as well as our debt to those who have crossed the Border Land; we need it to remind us that war is a terrible thing and every to be thought of except for the purpose of maintaining the right and establishing truth. We need this day with its flowers and wreaths, its flags and music, its memories and history to help us climb the heights of a truer and nobler and better citizenship, until some sweet bird of the South shall build its nest in every cannon’s mouth, until we shall hear once more throughout the length and breadth of our land, from ocean to ocean, from north to south, the Angel choir chanting as it did nineteen hundred years ago, “Peace on earth good will toward men.”
After the singing of “America” by the large audience, they were dismissed with the benediction by Rev. Lambly.
~Submitted for posting by volunteer, Linda Ziemann
