Summer 1955 • Vol. XVII No. 3 FictionJuly 1, 1955 |

Old Wildwood

On a soft morning in May, at the American Express in Rome, the grandson was handed a letter; and high up on the Spanish Steps he sat alone and opened the letter and read its news. It was in his mother's hand. "Well, your grandaddy died two days ago and we had his funeral in the house in Charity. There were so many flowers, roses and gladiolas and every other kind, that the front porch was filled with them, twas a sight to see. Then we took him to the graveyard where all the rest are buried and added his grave, one more, to the rest. "At the graveyard your father suddenly walked out and stood and said the Lord's Prayer over his daddy's grave, as none of the Methodists in the family would hear a Catholic Priest say a Catholic prayer, nor the Catholics in the family allow a Methodist one; and your grandaddy was going to be left in his grave without one holy word of any kind. But both were there, Priest and Preacher, and I said what a shame that your poor old daddy has to go to

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