THE MODERN CEMETERY. 
57 
Notings at Waeback Cemetery. 
Editor Modern Cemetery. 
The people at Waeback are become quite proud 
of their cemetery. Through the earnest endeavors 
of a few of their citizens the brush has been cut off 
the grounds and they have fallen into a warm ad- 
miration of the place. It was truly a great improve- 
ment — having the brush cut off — and one for which 
the Waebackians had waited patiently for twenty 
long years and more. I attended a funeral there 
the other day and picked up some points that had 
escaped the brush cutters. 
It would seem better that the man in charge of 
a cemetery should wear a tile hat, so that he might 
be of equal authority value with the one who does 
wear one and can’t be waived down. A bell-crown 
is quite nowhere in the emergency of the tile having 
the floor -or head of the procession. I mention 
this simply as a possible fact in nature. 
The procession was therefore in charge of the 
tile. Out-flanks are there employed to accompany 
the procession. Their antics relieve the tedium of 
the occasion and are, as well, the chief pride of 
many of the attending citizens. Thus, on our left 
were five tails, on the right three tails and four 
dogs — you see, in its infancy. Banker Brown’s pup, 
Tige, had suffered dehorning of the tail. The 
canines were not required as guards at all, but were 
simply along to take an outing, for there is nothing 
that does a Waeback gentleman’s heart so much 
good as to give his beloved dog a chance for diver- 
sion in such a famous range as their cemetery is 
since the brush was cut off. 
But these four-footed gods were quiet as usual 
in their general demeanor, simply visiting rose-tree, 
headstone and geranium, seriatim, with a wonderful 
exactitude. On the left there did fall an innocent 
set-to which only upset the begonia pot that Widow 
Blake had placed on the grave of her daughter, and 
on the right Tige bethought himself of a dirt geiser 
which with zeal and a glad boisterousness he 
promptly instituted in the soft earth up on the knoll 
where Jake Smith buried his baby last week. As 
the projected volleys of dirt were outlined against 
the sunny sky beyond “the place seemed like very 
wonderland,” and I knew by the look on his face 
that Banker B. fairly ached to yell out “ Bully for 
Tige!” — Jake Smith wasn’t along. 
Arrived at the place of burial, the hearse, by a 
unique system of cramping, see-sawing and exhibi- 
tion of horse training, was backed toward the side 
of the avenue. This closely imitates the familiar 
dumping of goods upon a side-walk from a dray, 
and evidently is intended to avoid that appearance 
of oppressive solemnity which in some places is per- 
mitted to exist on such occasions. The avoidance 
is perfect. The pall bearers then take their burden 
from the hearse, and waiting for no one, following 
only and implicitly the lead of the tile, step briskly 
away to the grave. The clergyman was in advance 
in the procession, and they therefore find him 
already at the grave awaiting them. By the time 
the first trembling mourners have arrived upon the 
scene the casket is well on its journey toward the 
bottom of the grave. The clergyman proceeds at 
once with the few closing words of ceremony, prob- 
ably having in mind how injurious it is for people to 
be out in the open air for any length of time. Just 
as he hastily utters his final “Amen!’’ and turns 
away the occupants of the second carriage reach the 
grave — those of the third being at a hurried half- 
waypoint. The remaining mourning friends, seeing 
“ it’s too late and no use,” make no attempt to get 
near and alight, though feeling not a little chagrin 
at being so nonchalantly left out. They entertain a 
strong suspicion that Bro. Cravat, or somebody, has 
“hurried the mourners.” 
But it is all over, and at this juncture, by an 
ancient custom here, the hackmen now take charge. 
In some cemeteries I have seen the empty carriages 
driven around a section in an orderly way and stand 
ready, in a quiet line, to take up their passengers 
again. But these hackmen executed the more ex- 
peditious and exhilarating maneuver of geeing and 
backing and backing and geeing, hooking their 
carriage poles into evergreens in front and halting 
with a whip slash when they bumped up against 
some inconveniently placed grave stone or urn be- 
hind, until they had all “changed ends.” Their 
prompt finesse may scare a few nervous females out 
of their carriages, but is much more expeditious, 
and comports more perfectly with the mode of 
turning the service at the grave, constituting in ora- 
torical phrase, a seemingly harmonious whole. The 
unloaded carriages are now driven rapidly up into 
(not by the side of) the groups to be taken up, who, 
when they have recovered from their fright at the 
sudden prospect of being run down, scramble into 
their seats, anxiously expressing the hope that they 
may yet reach their homes without serious accident. 
No longer a procession, the carriages now scurry 
back to town. 
I would not say of a certainty that any of the 
long-home residents out there were actuated by the 
deeds in their midst to turn themselves in their 
homes, yet it would strike me as quite safe to assert 
it were possible. 
Other matters noted out there I may refer to 
later on. 
Sem. Terry. 
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