PARK AND CC/nCTCRY. 
389 
in May, 1891, it was dedicated with appropriate 
ceremonies, Hon. J. B. Foraker, then governor of 
Ohio, being the orator of the day. The monument 
is of Westerly granite, crowned by an exact fac- 
simile in bronze of the engine stolen by the An- 
drews raiders in what constituted one of the most 
daring incidents of the war. The eight men who 
suffered death as a result of their intrepidity are bur- 
ied in a semi-circle on the west side of the monu- 
ment. 
There are no greenhouses on the place and no 
attempt is made at elaborate floral decorations, 
though in spring and summer some fine roses and 
geraniums are to be seen, and an occasional bright 
bed of coleus, alternantheras or other bedding plants. 
Much attention is given to the lawn and the shrub- 
bery, which latter is wonderfully well selected and 
artistically arranged. In one 
particular spot, of which I was 
careful to obtain a photograph, 
I counted eight different kinds of 
foliage. Numerous and beau- 
tiful varieties of Thuya, or 
Arbor Vitae, of all sizes, colors 
and shapes, divide the honors 
with Hibiscus, Syriacus, Ilex, 
Euonymus and, in fact, every 
other shrub with which one is 
familiar, and many strange ones 
beside. Then in spring the 
flowering shrubs bloom their 
best against back- 
of spruce, fir and 
face the trees in any way. 
One of the chief beauties of the place is the vines. 
They are everywhere — running rampant over the 
inclosing stone wall, festooning the superintendent’s 
house, covering stumps of dead 
trees and, prettiest of all, twin- 
ing and hanging from the great 
boulders and rockeries that 
adorn the western part of the 
cemetery. These rocks give 
just the needed touch of wild- 
ness that is indispensable in any 
beautiful grounds. Too much 
civilization, too great regularity, 
too palpable evidence of care is 
wearisome. 
I remember one day when I 
was all out of tune with the 
world and every one in it, taking 
a walk in this particular portion 
of the cemetery. It had been 
raining and everything had 
that delicious smell that always follows a 
much-needed summer shower, and the sky 
was still black and threatening. I stood 
looking up at those great rocks, whose time-worn 
faces were partially veiled by clinging ivy and am- 
pelopsis. Suddenly the sun broke through the 
clouds, turning to gems the raindrops on grass and 
leaf, and resting lovingly upon those old gray rocks. 
It was all so beautiful, so grand, so different from 
the dead level of ordinary things. Beneath the larg- 
est rock is a cavern shut in by a heavy wooden door. 
It was once intended to convert this into a vault, 
but such’’use was never made of it. However, this 
beautiful 
grounds 
cedar. 
The native trees are mostly oaks of various 
kinds, maples and hickories. The children are al- 
lowed in autumn to gather the nuts that fall from the 
atter, though no one is permitted to climb or de- 
door in the hill side, with its heavy chain and rusty 
padlock, has suggestions for the fanciful mind de- 
cidedly apart from the commonplace. Standing 
here on that quiet Sunday afternoon, I placed a 
