The Stump in the Graveyard

There was a sign at the gate: NASHOBA MUNICIPAL CEMETERY.

The Reverend Joseph Bold walked down the hill with Mary and Homer Kelly to the foot of the burial ground, where a stone wall meandered along Quarry Pond Road.

“It’s somewhere in this clump of trees,” said Joe. He led them ducking through a small forest of bushy saplings to an opening in the center, where a circle of small stumps surrounded a moss-grown giant like chairs around a table.

“It was huge all right,” said Joe. He took a tape measure out of his coat, stretched it across the stump, whistled, snapped the tape shut, and said, “Eight feet, four inches.”

As they fumbled their way out again, Homer said learnedly, “I’ve been reading about chestnut trees. The roots keep sending up shoots, but they don’t last long. Ever since 1904, when the blight appeared, every chestnut tree in the country has been doomed to an early death.”

“Just like James Thurber’s aunt.” Joe laughed and mopped at his eye, which had been scraped by a whippy twig. “If I remember correctly, she was the only human being who ever died of the chestnut blight.”

“But it wasn’t the blight that destroyed this tree,” said Mary. “Miss Flint told us about it. It was cut down in 1868.”

“By order of your predecessor in the pulpit,” said Homer, prodding Joe’s shirt with an accusing finger. “One Horatio Biddle. Act of vandalism.”

Joe held up protesting hands. “Don’t blame me. It was long before my time. Now, if you two will excuse me, I’ve got an appointment with an engaged couple.”

Mary smiled. “You’re going to lecture them about their marriage vows?”

“On the contrary—they’ll lecture me. They’ll want a service expressing their innermost convictions.” Joe said good-bye and ambled away, mumbling, “Big chunks of the Rubaiyat, I’ll bet. ‘A jug of wine,’ et cetera.”

Mary and Homer were in no hurry. The graveyard looked like a gold mine. For the rest of the afternoon, they wandered up the hill and down again, reading tombstones. Surely some of the dramatis personae in Julie Flint’s stories and recollections and miniature biographies lay buried right here beneath their feet.

They began with the impressive tombstone at the top of the hill. “Deacon Samuel Sweetser,” said Mary, reading the inscription. “It looks older than the rest.”

Deacon Sweetser’s monument dwarfed the small stone beside it:

THE REVEREND HORATIO BIDDLE

1820–1868

Pastor

FIRST PARISH OF NASHOBA

1851–1868

Mary frowned. “Wasn’t he—”

“You bet he was.” Homer made a kicking motion at Biddle’s tombstone, but he stopped his big shoe before it struck. “Horatio Biddle, he’s the vandal vile, remember? The one who gave the order for the felling of the chestnut tree.”

“Oh, ugh,” said Mary, moving on.

Halfway down the sloping burial ground, they found the splendid memorial to the next pastor of Nashoba’s First Parish:

THE REVEREND JOSIAH GIDEON

1823–1903

Cherished Pastor

FIRST PARISH OF NASHOBA

1868–1903

and

His Beloved Wife,

JULIA LORD GIDEON

1828–1908

“Julie’s great-grandparents,” said Homer. “And this one marks the grave of her grandfather.”

EBEN BARTHOLOMEW FLINT

1847–1928

Pvt., 2nd Maryland

Volunteer Infantry, 1863

Architect, Deacon,

Selectman,

Moderator of Town Meeting

Let us now praise famous men,

And our fathers that begat us.

All these were honoured

in their generations,

and were the glory in their times.

“Eben Bartholomew Flint,” said Mary. “Remember him, Homer?” He was Ida’s younger brother. Did Eben have a wife?”

“Well, of course he must have been married,” said Homer, “if Julie’s his granddaughter. Look, we’ve got to go.”

But on the way back up the hill, they were attracted by the inscription on another stone. “Look, Homer,” cried Mary, “here are Jean’s ancestors, the Spratt brothers.”

Homer laughed, remembering the twins in their bowler hats. “Not only were they born at the same time, but they died in the same year.”

“Maybe it was a joint decision.”

“Or perhaps they were called home at the same instant by the dear ones who had gone before.”

“Or it could have been a scientific miracle of molecular sympathy. You know, a simultaneous decay of protoplasm.”

“Well, whatever.”

Here Lie the Mortal Remains of

Two Brothers

JOHN AND JACOB SPRATT

Portrait and Aerial Photographers

1843–1913

May their souls fly to heaven

As their bodies flew on earth.