Edgar White

“ We were following the path close to the edge of the bluff. An icy chill, like the breath of death, came up from the dark waters below. Suddenly to the northeast a long, slender, pink. streak of light appeared over the trees on the far side of the river.
“Look!” she cried, letting go of my arm. “The dawn is breaking . . . . It’s all light over there . . . . he's calling . . . . calling to me. . . . I see him . . . . Doctor!—Robert! . . . . I’m coming!”
And before I could reach her she ran to the edge of the high bluff and leaped off like a bird! ”

“ At times there would be queer rustlings among the grass and leaves. Occasionally there was the strange cry of a night bird, and the distant bay of a hound.
“Sacred to the memory of—”
I knew how all those headstones read, terminal marks for life’s journey. On the very old ones were indexes pointing upward, always upward. God grant “they” traveled that way.
“If there is a way—”
I shuddered. In a moment I would know. The vault was on a sort of cleared space, not far from the edge of the tall bluff, the foot of which was lashed by the tide. ”

“ Oakland is a lovely cemetery. It is on a rolling. bluegrass hill running right up to the bluffs of the great river. There are many beautiful trees. I’ve known of men who died thousands of miles away and asked that they be buried in our cemetery because of its singular picturesqueness and solemnity.
It was a pretty, moonlight night, and I chose to walk rather than hire a car. I knew all about the place—in day time. You rarely see people who have business in a graveyard at night. ”