Reece, Mrs. George Rhodes, Ralph Rhodes, Thomas Richter, Gustav Robbins, Hortense Roberts, Rosie Ross, Thomas, Jr. Russian Sonia Rutledge, Anne S Sayre, Johnnie Scates, Hiram Schirding, Albert Schmidt, Felix Schrœder The Fisherman Scott, Julian Sersmith the Dentist Sewall, Harlan Sharp, Percival Shaw, “Ace” Shelley, Percy Bysshe Shope, Tennessee Claflin Sibley, Amos Sibley, Mrs. Siever, Conrad Simmons, Walter Sissman, Dillard Slack, Margaret Fuller Smith, Louise Soldiers, Many Somers, Jonathan Swift Somers, Judge Sparks, Emily Spears, Lois Spooniad, The Standard, W. Lloyd Garrison Stewart, Lillian Stoddard, Judson T Tanner, Robert Fulton Taylor, Deacon Theodore, The Poet Thornton, English Throckmorton, Alexander Todd, Eugenia Tompkins, Josiah Trainor, the Druggist Trevelyan, Thomas Trimble, George Tripp, Henry Tubbs, Hildrup Turner, Francis Tutt, Oaks U Unknown, The W Wasson, John Wasson, Rebecca Webster, Charles Weirauch, Adam Weldy, “Butch” Wertman, Elsa Whedon, Editor Whitney, Harmon Wiley, Rev. Lemuel Will, Arlo William and Emily Williams, Dora Williams, Mrs. Wilmans, Harry Witt, Zenas Y Yee Bow Z Zoll, Perry The Hill _Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter? All, all are sleeping on the hill. One passed in a fever, One was burned in a mine, One was killed in a brawl, One died in a jail, One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife— All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith, The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?— All, all are sleeping on the hill. One died in shameful child-birth, One of a thwarted love, One at the hands of a brute in a brothel, One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire; One after life in far-away London and Paris Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag— All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily, And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton, And Major Walker who had talked With venerable men of the revolution?— All, all are sleeping on the hill. They brought them dead sons from the war, And daughters whom life had crushed, And their children fatherless, crying— All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill. Where is Old Fiddler Jones Who played with life all his ninety years, Braving the sleet with bared breast, Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin, Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven? Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago, Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove, Of what Abe Lincoln said One time at Springfield._ Hod Putt