"Beneath this Ston's Int'r'd the Bon's Ah Frail Remains Of Lieut Noah Jones"-- or Mary Jones or William Jones, as the case might be. The Noyes family delighted in these lines: "You children of the name of Noyes Make Jesus Christ yo'r only choyse." The Tutes and Shutes and Roots began their epitaphs thus: "Here lies cut down like unripe fruit The wife of Deacon Amos Shute." Gershom Root was "cut down like unripe fruit" at the fully mellowed age of seventy-three. A curiously incomprehensible epitaph is this, which always strikes me afresh, upon each perusal, as a sort of mortuary conundrum: "O! Happy Probationer! Accepted without being Exercised." Sometimes an old epitaph will be found of such impressive though simple language that it clings long in the memory. Such is this verse of gentle quaintness over the grave of a tender Puritan blossom, the child of an early settler: "Submit Submitted to her heavenly Kinge Being a flower of that Aeternal Spring Neare 3 years old shee dyed in Heaven to waite The Yeare was sixteen hundred 48." Another of unusual beauty and sentiment is this: "I came in the morning--it was Spring And I smiled. I walked out at noon--it was Summer And I was glad. I sat me down at even--it was Autumn And I was sad. I laid me down at night--it was Winter And I slept." Collections of curious old epitaphs have been made and printed, but seem dull and colorless on the printed page, and the warning words seem to lose their power unless seen in the sad graveyard, where, "silently expressing old mortality," the hackneyed rhymes and tender words are touching from their very simplicity and the loneliness which surrounds them, and for their calm repetition, on stone after stone, of an undying faith in a future life.