A ll Rome was there to meet her. With the earliest glimmer of dawn the little city of the hills began to stir – but softly, like the tread of gentle snowflakes. Long before the sun was up, every road was thronged with travelers from the neighboring farms and hamlets, while every train brought its burden of souls from the remoter towns and cities. It was a day to be remembered by the youngest child when an aged man or woman, a day whose significance made it a rare forget-me-not in the year's calendar of events. But, instead of the emblems of rejoicing, the symbols of grief were displayed on every hand…No sound of hammer or anvil smote the air. Shops were closed…It was Mrs. Wilson's home-coming; and this vast assemblage of friends was here to welcome in silence a returning daughter of Georgia, one whose name was upon a nation's lips: the beloved First Lady of the Land. [Georgia historian, Lucian Lamar Knight, 1914] Mrs. Wilson was coming home – and she...
Telling the Tales of Tombstones