Our Ancestors Speak

Rather than a recital of names and dates and begats, we have set forth our ancestors’ stories for the most part in the first person singular, as though they were present with us, giving glimpses of their lives. These are not the stories of royalty, nor of the rich or powerful – simply the stories of plain folks – the “survivors” who in their own days upon the Earth loved and struggled, suffered the afflictions of aging, and tried to be loyal to – and support – their kin and in turn hoped to be likewise supported in their own time of need. From some deep place within, the ancestors speak into all our lives – our living flesh and blood is the bridge to their former lives – the spirit endures through its “earthly” reproductions, and strives through its new hosts to remember itself.

As Marnie’s grandparents George and Julia Denby had inscribed on the stone marking their final resting place:

“THE LIGHT OF LIFE GLOWS BEYOND ITS SPAN”

His Ancestors Speak through Keith:

Father – Everett John Elliott (1897-1990) – I was a life-long resident near and in Seeleys Bay, Ont. I was raised as a sole child in a one-room log cabin on my father Archie’s 60 acre farm which was adjacent to grandfather William Pierce’s homestead. The original log cabin home was still in use 80 years later, having been moved to a neighbour’s farm and used as a maple sugar shack. I attended a one room schoolhouse 2 miles south in the village, completing all 8 grades – then at the age of 15 I was given a new axe and hoe by Dad and thus became a farmer. While young, I frequently talked with the several Indians still living locally, and from them picked up hunting and trapping skills which came in handy in supplementing our family’s economy. I was so good at reading the minds and ways of the wild creatures that others said that I must be part Indian myself. When I was about 10 years old, my Dad Archie acquired the 100 acre farm of the neighbour to our west, and we moved into the large frame house adjacent numerous barns on the property. On June 25, 1919 Mabel Theresa (Maxwell) and I were married, and the farm house was divided and fitted out to accommodate the two families. Mabel and I raised 3 boys and a girl, and just prior to onset of the Depression, we lost all our barns, stored crops, and much of our livestock including many of Archie’s horses on Halloween, 1929. Thanks to our good standing in the community, we were able to arrange credit for construction supplies, and with the help of our neighbours were able to complete a new steel hip-roofed bank barn and move in the remaining livestock and replacement fodder by Christmas. With this set-back it was very difficult to weather the Depression – at one point, to clear back-taxes which would have otherwise meant loss of the farm, I had to sell 6 of our best milk cows – for a total of $48. After all the kids moved on, Mabel and I retired to the village in the early 60’s, and we were able to continue with our lodge, community and political interests. Mabel predeceased me in 1978, and I was able to continue on at home almost to the end.

Mother – Mabel Theresa Maxwell (1896-1978) – I was raised as second oldest child (oldest daughter) of Robert T. Maxwell and Mary Jane (Murphy) near Leo Lake, approx 8 miles SW of Seeleys Bay. I attended a very small one-room 8 grade school nearby. My parents’ farm was small and the soil difficult – we were poor but so was everyone else nearby, so no stigma was felt. My Ma and Pa were deeply religious, and instilled in us kids a faith that sustained us in the challenges that life throws at all. Disaster struck with my Father’s serious illness in 1911, and his sudden death while still under hospitalization the following year, when I was 15. My brother Thomas – 3 years senior – took on responsibility for running the farm and coping with its heavy debt structure, and then disaster again struck when our farmhouse burned down in the winter. Somehow we all survived – Tom continued at ‘home’, while brother Bill took employment in Gananoque and my 3 sisters married and settled into various nearby communities. I met Everett and we fell in love – a love that sustained us through many hard times, to the end. Our frame farmhouse was uninsulated until 1947, non-electrified until the 1949 rural electrification program, had no running water nor indoor plumbing, and was heated by woodstoves. It was very draughty in winter, and frequently on winter mornings there would be an inch of ice on the water pail in the kitchen. Many times during the annual cycles it was necessary that “all hands” be engaged in the raw weather to take care of crops, poultry, livestock and gardens. As did many people working in the raw elements, I developed serious arthritis and rheumatism and required extensive medications that sometimes triggered other symptoms. It was good to be able to retire to a cozy village home with Everett in 1963, and maintain all our social connections. By the mid ’70s I had incurred leukemia and also suffered from numerous serious medical problems but was still able to keep house, cook for us and attend lodge and card-parties with friends almost to the end. It had been my desire to predecease Everett, since I knew that he – being stronger – could manage alone, which I would not be able to do.

[Everett and Mabel rest in the non-denominational cemetery at Sweet’s Corners, approx 5 miles n-e of Seeleys Bay -their black marble marker clearly visible from Highway 15, with cherished Masonic and Eastern Star emblems inscribed thereon]

Grandfather (Paternal) Archibald (Archie) Elliott (1858-1943) – I was raised in the Ompah area, approx 20 miles north of Sharbot Lake. Dad immigrated from the Wexford, Ireland area during the Great Potato Famine during which so many died. The Ompah/ Plevna/ Mazinaw area was heavily forested at the time, with a seemingly endless supply of hardwoods and white pine. The latter especially were in great demand for boat masts and housing; it was hard work in the timber camps and mills, but a living could be gained and a family supported. Unfortunately there were no schools nearby, so I never did learn to read, write or do sums. One thing that I did learn, though, was horses; and for the rest of my life I was never far from these wonderful creatures. It was while delivering lumber to old William Pierce, north of Seeleys Bay, that I first saw – and became entranced with – one of his daughters, a slender lass named Ellen. In due course I hired on as a farm-hand with old William, in time married little Ellen, and by the time I was 40 had acquired a small farm next door and a son. The rest of my story is combined with that of Everett – I would just add that after our barns burnt down in 1929, the banker took me aside and told me that I was too horse-crazy and had no business sense (hell, I couldn’t even count and signed my name with a witnessed “X”, so it wasn’t real news to me). The bottom line was that the banker wouldn’t provide any backing for our farm unless everything was deeded over to Everett. Under the circumstances it seemed a good idea – I was over 70 years old by then and Everett could, and would, take care of us all. And I got to keep my horses - at least the ones that weren’t burned up in the fire. I remember Everett’s runt – Keith they called him – don’t know where in tarnation that name came from – there’ve been Archies as long as there’ve been Elliotts, and Williams as long as there’ve been Pierces – anyways the runt was a late arrival –Everett and Mabel being over 40 at the time (but then Pa was 40 when I popped up, and I was 40 when Everett dropped by, so…) but that runt – he was always asking questions and arguing about my answers. Ask and argue. Only times he didn’t argue was when I came back from the Bay in the buggy with a nickel’s worth of humbug candy for him – I’d tell him to “Suck ’em, not chaw ’em”. He’d ask why and I’d tell him “ because I won’t give ’em to you unless you promise not to chaw ’em.” Debate with the kid and he’d rag it all day, but reason with him in the right way and he’d go on to something else. He used to come into our end of the house at night to listen with us to our battery radio – and ask questions and argue. By the Spring of the year he turned 6, he’d plumb wore me down. Almost the last thing I remember is bein’ in my bed and drifting off, Ellen holding my hand, and ole Bugle, Everett’s deer hound, sets up a yowlin’ fit out in the barn yard. I knew what the yowlin’ meant, and it didn’t bother me ’cause I was tired, but Everett got pretty upset, and went out and threw a chunk of stove-wood at Bugle to give him something else to think about. But see, that wasn’t Everett’s normal way – he’d no more hurt his dogs than I would hurt my horses. And now here comes the runt into my room, asking what’s happening to his Grampa: won’t matter what they tell him, he’ll argue ‘til the end… Gonna miss that….

Grandmother (Paternal) Ellen Pierce (1855-1947) – My voice is blended with that of Archie, just as it was when we were both living on the farm. Archie’s life was my life – his happiness was my joy. I did have some little schoolin’ – could even read a bit, but there was precious little to read. But by many measures we were privileged. Our log home was one of the first farmhouses locally to have a telephone installed (about 1905), and if a call came in for one of the other farmers on our concession, why Everett would jump on his pony and relay the message onwards. Archie was strong and worked well with our son Everett, although the lad loved to be off by himself hunting with his dog Shep, who used to meet him on the side-road every night on his way home from school. Like others, misfortune visited us, but through adversity we became stronger, together. We had a son John prior to Everett, but he only lasted a few days. I was not strong like Mabel, and to help me with the housework we fostered Laura, a girl from Scotland, who grew up in our home and was like an older sister to Everett.

I still fondly remember my trip to California in the late ’30s to visit my sister. She and her husband were fairly well off, and they sent me train fare and off I went for a whole month. Such marvellous sights – big cities, the ocean, the orange groves and redwood cedars so huge that we drove the Model T right through a hole in the trunk of one. Great place to visit, but…

[Archie and Ellen rest in Leeds Anglican Cemetery approx 2 miles N of Everett and Mabel’s resting place]

Grandfather (Maternal) Robert T Maxwell (1862-1912). With my good wife Mary Jane (Murphy), we had been getting by – there was not much money, and there were 2 boys and 4 girls to nurture; we had what would be called a highly leveraged situation – appraised farm (100 acres), home and barn + livestock + equipment all worth a total of $2000 according to a 1910 appraisal at the time of my hospitalization, against which there was $1800 debt – BUT we had each other and our church and were respected in the community. The church was an evangelical fellowship called The Hornerites – our meetings were charismatic, and frequently under influence of the Spirit we would speak in tongues and swoon to the meetinghouse floor and writhe in ecstasy. Some non-believers called us “Holy Rollers” because of this.

Then I became ill, and was taken far away to London, where eventually I was diagnosed as being afflicted with something called adult-onset epilepsy. There was a lot of fear and stigma associated with my affliction, with many people whispering that an evil spirit had possessed me. I still wonder if it hadn’t had something to do with a nasty crack on the head in the barn a few weeks before the initial seizure. Anyway, I was 250 miles from my family – there was no way to contact them in those days. One day I became so desperate to be with my family that I ran away from the hospital, and walked and hitched buggy rides until I got home. Mary Jane heard me calling for her from half a mile away, and met me on the side-road. In a few days the guardians caught up with me on the farm, and took me away, but this time only as far as Rockwood Hospital in Kingston, some 20 miles away. My family were thus able to see me from time to time, but there wasn’t any known cure for my epilepsy. I was in great despair, and died from a heart attack at the age of 50.

Grandmother (Maternal) Mary Jane Murphy (1867-1948) – Robert’s illness struck us all very hard. We had tried so hard to live rightly – and it was so difficult to understand why this tragedy should occur to Robert, to all of us. Somehow it seemed that we had been cursed, and then the winter after my husband died our farmhouse burned to the ground and the youngest girl (who must have tipped a coal oil lamp onto herself) was caught in the fire and ran screaming out of the house toward the barn where the rest of us were milking, her dress ablaze. We rolled little Edith in the snow and put out the fire, but she was very badly burned and carried the scars for the rest of her life. I guess I became a bit strict with the children – for instance, our church frowned on music for enjoyment, and one time I came upon all six in the barn singing and dancing – it only happened the once. Eventually Thomas, the eldest, became head of the household, and in the end he ended up with the farm, and with a nudge from his wife he bought me a little insul-brick sided cabin in Seeleys Bay. It was very lonely there, and my rather strict and Spartan ways were not always appreciated by my children’s spouses, so visits to their homes were infrequent. Mabel would often visit me after her Saturday night grocery shopping, while Everett sat with the other men and conversed around the hot-stove in Alf Kenny’s store. Their youngest boy, Keith Robert, spent a few weeks with me during a couple winters when the snow plugged side-road back to their concession became impassable for the horse-drawn plough, and when the boy was yet too young to ski the 2 miles through the forest and fields to school. At night he would draw and work on his spelling with the aid of my coal-oil lamp, while I would read my Bible across the table. I should have told him about his Grampa Maxwell (whose name he carries) – but even after all those years I was still unable to talk about it. I know that after Keith and Marnie’s retirement, they contacted the Public Trustee and obtained for the first time a record of what happened to my Robert.

[Robert and Mary Jane rest in an abandoned Baptist cemetery (the church itself burned down decades ago) near Sandhill, which is a couple miles East off Hwy 15, approx 5 miles north of Joyceville. No other data is available concerning their forebears, although there is another Robert Maxwell whose name is also inscribed on the side of Robert and Mary Jane’s marker, and from the dating (1829-1920) it is probably Grandpa Maxwell’s father.]

Distant Voices – Paternal One day, when I [Keith] was doing a project progress inspection of a resort client north of Sharbot Lake, Dad (Everett) who was then in his mid-70s accompanied me, and as we journeyed through various communities, he passed on stories told to him by Archie. Stories about how Archie’s father (again named Archie (1805 -1887) came out of Ireland, and is buried alongside his wife Annie in the Ompah cemetery. The frontier was so primitive when he first came out, that roving bands of Indians were regularly seen. One of the Indians’ annual traditions, around New Year’s when the ice on Lake Mazinaw was thick enough, entailed the “Deer Jump”. For many miles Indians would station themselves in a loose “V” formation through the forest and swamps, so as to funnel deer herds toward the great cliffs on the East side of Lake Mazinaw, across from what is now Bon Echo Provincial Park. The herds were frightened from the rear and pushed forward through the narrowing human “V” until they were forced to leap from the sheer cliff and crash onto the frozen lake, where their bodies were butchered and a winter’s supply of venison dragged back to the tribe’s winter longhouses.

Dad indicated that by the turn of the 20^th Century, the white pine and hardwoods that were the economic mainstay of the area were giving out. The land itself was mostly too rough for farming and there were desperate times for the families in the communities dependent on lumbering. By the time World War 1 rolled around, almost all able-bodied men in these communities jumped at the chance of enlisting into the armed forces, there being nothing else for them to do. A chance to see the world, and to be paid for it. Casualties amongst those men enlisted from such communities were high and those not killed in battle opted to settle elsewhere on their return. For decades (until the cottage country concept gained popularity) many communities such as Ompah in Central Ontario were likewise emptied.

Prior to the Irish Potato Famine emigration, the Elliotts had lived in the Wexford area in Ireland since 1650, when they had taken up land as part of the victors’ reward for serving with Cromwell’s Ironsides as England quelled another Irish Rebellion. Prior to that, there is record in the Anglo-Scottish border area of the Elliotts as one of many border clans that specialized in sheep and cattle stealing – apparently an esteemed profession in those days. Known as the “Border Reivers”, these clans moved back and forth across the border, depending on which side the heat was coming from, and to where allegiance-of-the-moment was owed. Rivalry amongst the clans was intense, and the border area was frequently torn by vicious, almost continuous cycles of inter-clan raid, reprisal and blood feud. The Border Reivers were adept cattle thieves, guerrilla soldiers skilled at raiding, tracking and ambush; they were essentially well organized ‘gangsters’. The name “Archie Elliott” surfaces repeatedly through the generations, and skills such as those developed by the Reivers were valued when the country needed them.

On the other branch of my paternal lineage is the Pierce family. Grampa Archie Elliott’s wife – Ellen Pierce, noted above, was one of the daughters of William Pierce (1822-1901) and his wife Sarah Willis (1816-1909) who farmed near Seeley’s Bay and who are buried in Sweet’s Corners Cemetery. In turn, his parents were William Thomas Pierce (1796-1861) who came to Canada from Bunclody, Wexford County, Ireland with his wife Ellen Denby (1802-1863) from nearby Ballyroebuck, Ireland; after emigrating to Canada in the 1840s, this couple homesteaded in Oak Leaf, Ont. between Athens and Brockville.

[Note the coincidence of an ancestor in my lineage having as wife a Denby, Marnie’s maiden surname.]

Further back, and according to family records, the Pierces had also come to Ireland with the 1650 Cromwell Expedition – having been recruited from Wales. They had arrived there in 1066, coming with William the Conqueror from Normandy, France.

and her Ancestors Speak through Marnie:

Father – Lloyd George Denby (1917-1985) I was raised on my father George’s farm near Burford, Ont and at the age of 9 my parents relocated to Rodney where they bought a hotel that we as a family operated together. In 1936 the hotel was sold and so, at the age of 19, I took employment with Bell Canada as a clerk in their Ingersoll business office. Two years later I married my Rodney sweetheart, Marion LeVerne Mistele and Marnie, the first of our three daughters, was born in ’41. Enlisting in the Canadian Forces in 1942, I was posted to British Columbia, and after discharge in ’45 resumed my career with Bell Canada. While limited by only having a Grade 8 education, I was able to advance in my career through hard work and loyalty, my motto being “You can slide further on oil than you can on cinders.” I earned promotions and was appointed into the junior management levels in Bell’s business offices in London and Toronto – finally being appointed Manager of Bell’s Brampton business office, and then Manager of the Guelph office where I took retirement in 1975. Along the way I learned the art of being entertaining as well as the value of keeping my own counsel so that behind my smiles no one really knew what was going on. I see now the downside of that strategy – that one can only be understood by others if one opens up to them and presents the story of one’s life in a coherent manner. Traits are learned early, and a key to my lack of openness may have been that – as is the case in many families – there was considerable acrimony between my father and myself. I distanced myself from George and seldom went to visit with him in his retirement, and didn’t even allow my wife and children to attend his funeral. And for all intents and purposes, mention of George was verboten in our household. No specifics – no discussion. When Keith married Marnie, the cycle started up again, and then it fell to the lot of Keith, who seemed too damned nosy and asked too many questions for my liking, to became the “other-excluded”. Strange. Always seemed to have to have an “enemy”. The real enemy – cancer of the colon – struck hard in ’81.

Within a year of Marion’s death in ’82, I again married, this time to an old personal friend – Dorothy – a fine spinster lady who was not formerly known within my family.

Mother – Marion Leverne Mistele (1912-1982) My story is a simple one, but my love for my family ran deeply and was felt by all. After marrying Lloyd I gave up my job as a Bell switchboard operator in Rodney (Bell frowned on working wives) and devoted the rest of my life to supporting Lloyd and raising our three daughters. Lloyd defined reality for all of us – and if Lloyd decided to dislike someone, it was very difficult to change his mind. Fortunately he liked most people (as long as they were not too close to him, or tried to be). With his polished communication skills Lloyd should have been able to reconcile with his Dad, and why he excluded Keith was also not clear to me, although there were some pretty stiff discussions between them plus Keith could always beat Lloyd at chess or checkers. It is recalled that when Keith and Marnie announced their imminent wedding intentions to us in the Spring of 1960, Lloyd said to me, in front of them “Well, I guess that a hundred years from now it won’t matter all that much.” Not a very warm welcome to the family. On the other hand, Keith didn’t always show the appropriate degree of respect to Lloyd that he was accustomed to. On the arrival of Keith and Marnie’s first-born, over a bottle of rye, they had gotten into a man-to-man dispute about the baby’s name – Keith said it would be Everett Lloyd, but Lloyd demanded that the child be named Lloyd Everett, and observed that he was owed that concession bearing in mind the shame that he and I would have to endure amongst our friends when the 7 months gestation time between wedding and birth was noted. Keith observed that “with an attitude like that, it was no wonder that God had given him 3 daughters, but no son.” Little did Keith know at the time how deeply that had hurt Lloyd, being unaware that our first-born had been a son, Geordie, who died during birth. But, on the plus side, Lloyd was a good provider, generous and absolutely the best story-teller ever, and on the rather rare occasions when Marnie and her family were present, Keith would ask Lloyd to retell one or another of his ‘oldies yet goodies’.

For many years while our girls were growing up we rented various cottages in the Muskoka area for a couple weeks each summer. Then, in the mid-60s, Lloyd and I got our own cottage, and for many years that was our retreat from the city. The lot comprised a couple of acres on a lake near the village of Ardbeg, 30 miles n-e of Parry Sound. The lot was leased from the railway, and on it was an old house that had been the home of a foreman on the railway. The building had been abandoned for many years, but gradually we were able to make it liveable and for years we spent many weekends and holidays there.

On Christmas night in ’82 I suffered my fatal heart attack.

At my funeral service, the minister – being aware that my three sons-in-law were present – observed that there is a special relationship between a woman and her son-in-law that he likened to being a very special love affair. The son-in-law who truly loves and cherishes his own wife tends to love her source. It is certainly the case that all three of my boys grieved deeply at my passing.

[Lloyd and Marion’s cremation urns are buried in the Memorial Gardens, Woolwich St., Guelph. The cremation garden is located on the first road to the left after going through the main gates.]

Grandfather (Paternal) – George William Denby (1866-1951) – I farmed in Burford until I was 60, by which time I was so badly crippled by polio that I had to manoeuvre myself around with two canes. No longer able to farm, I decided it was time for a change, so in 1926 I bought the Eustes Hotel in Rodney and moved there. I sold the hotel in 1930 but by 1932 the Eustes was back in my hands. I loved to play checkers and some hard-fought games were closely watched by ardent locals. This was in the post-prohibition era, and we were legally able to sell 4.4% beer. Our hotel had a large dining room that served full-course meals for 75 cents to $1. The area was quite prosperous and lots of commercial business was transacted, with merchandise salesmen taking up most of the available rental rooms. Our eldest son Winnie was the manager of the business and with the help of Velma, the youngest daughter, and younger son Lloyd, we conducted a well-run hostelry. By 1936, with my health failing, the hotel was again sold.

I moved back to Burford and with my wife Julia Mabel (Dawes) (1877-1944) retired to a house on Maple St. After Julia died in 1944, I was unable to live on my own and moved in with my daughter Noreen at her turkey farm in Hagersville.

[Following is a photo of George and Julia’s marker in the Pioneer Cemetery in Burford. When we tracked down the burial site in October 2005, Keith and I were stunned at the beauty and elegance of the memorial. A definite incongruity between assumptions based on parental conditioning, as opposed to reality, if what is carved in stone is any indicator.]

Great-Grandfather (Paternal) – Joseph Denby (1834-1922) I emigrated from England to Canada in 1861 and took up several good farm lots near Burford, later bringing out my 4 brothers from England and helping them get established. All my life I farmed, and I and my wife Lovena (Pugsley) (1846-1938) were influential in many ways in the our community.

[Joseph and Lovena are buried in the Congregational Cemetery, Burford on Maple Ave. To locate, heading east or west on County Road 53, go to stoplight at Maple Ave. and then South. The cemetery is on left (east side). Their headstone is at the back on the left-hand side.]

Grandfather (Maternal) – Henry (Hank) Mistele (1885-1965). A life-long resident of Rodney, I co-ran the village hardware store with my three brothers. This store had been started in 1890 by our father, David Mistele (1858-1924) who ran it until his death. Father had emigrated from Germany to this area, and had been elected to the village’s first council and became its first fire chief. During Rodney’s gas-light days, Father was also responsible for seeing that the village had plenty of gas and that the streetlights were lit and extinguished. For several years the Farmers Telephone exchange was operated from a switchboard room at the back of our hardware store – later it was absorbed into the Bell system. After my brothers and I took over the business, each of us had a specialty trade: general construction, gasworks, electrical – mine was tinsmithing. For many years we all made a good living from of the business; the surrounding countryside was prosperous, yielding beans, corn and tobacco; oil was discovered nearby in the ‘20s, followed by natural gas in the ‘40s. Around 1905 I married Mary Speirn (1885-1953), of a good German family (at the time 10% of the county population was of German extraction) and what with the raising of our two children (Walter and Marion) and our business and community involvement, it was a very satisfying life. Our social life centred on our church (The Zion Evangelical Brethren – later folded into the United Church) and I sang in the choir. Rodney was a great place to live in and raise a family, during a great time – why, we had everything – even an Opera House. And our famous jail. Famous because it was the smallest jail in North America, possibly smallest in the world. A lovely 270 square foot, 2 cell brick building, built in 1890 for $200.

Mary and I had a marvellous flower garden, our favourite being dahlias, and we won many ribbons during the annual London and Rodney Fall Fairs. Mary was a wonderful cook and, usually on Fridays she would bring home-baked goods to the hardware store as a treat for everyone. One Friday fell on April Fool’s day and she baked her famous lunch-cakes which were something like a rich donut without the hole and with icing on top, only this time there was a surprise inside. Imagine the shock when we bit into a mouthful of cotton batting!

For many years our granddaughter Marnie spent part of her summer vacations with us, and it was one of our rituals for her and me to walk hand-in-hand through the village in the evening, down to the train station at the south end, and watch the activity there while eating ice cream cones. Rodney was a busy stopover on the Windsor>London>Fort Erie line, and there was always passenger and freight action to watch.

In 1948 my Mary had a very serious stroke that left her with one side paralysed. She’d always loved to play cards with the family and friends, and we were able to make her a device whereby she could properly hold the cards in her paralysed hand, and select and play the desired cards with her good hand. Five years later she suffered her final stroke, and my Mary was gone. Afterwards, my diabetes gradually became worse and because of related blood circulation problems, infections became increasingly severe. In the early ’60s I lost first one leg, then a couple years later, the second one also had to be amputated so my mobility was then confined to use of a wheel chair and I had to have a live-in nurse take care of me.

[Hank and Mary are buried in the Rodney Cemetery, their grave situated amongst those of their numerous relatives and friends]

Brief were my days among you, and briefer still the words I have spoken… Yes, I shall return with the tide, and though death may hide me and the greater silence enfold me, yet again will I seek your understanding…Know, therefore, that from the greater silence I shall return… A little while, and my longing shall gather dust and form for another body. A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me. (Kahlil Gibran - The Prophet)

Posted October 20^th, 2005

Home	Our Stories	The Sublime	Our World and Times	Book Reviews
Our Images	The Journal	Gleanings	From The Writings Of. . .	Allegories