The Haunted Grove, A Smallpox Follow-Up
It’s funny how, after publishing an article on a particular topic, you stumble across more information while researching a totally unrelated topic. In an article titled Smallpox: The Pruning of a Family Tree printed in the Delaware County (Indiana) Historical Society Newsletter, March/April, 2015, we read about the tragedy of the Whitaker family in 1882. Eleven members of the family were stricken with the disease. One little girl survived while the rest of the victims were buried nearby. Sometime later the bodies were removed and reinterred in Eaton cemetery. Someone using the pen name Hoosier Sam shared the thoughts of area trees and bird on the removal of the bodies they so long watched over. His poem was published in the Muncie Daily Herald on March 18, 1890. Spelling and punctuation have been left intact.
The Haunted Grove
Whilst walking through Squire Stanly’s wood,
I thought to rest, and ‘neath an oak tree stood
Whilst listening to a wild bird’s song
I heard a moan both loud and long;
Quickly arising from my place
I thought to see a human face;
Again the sound I heard once more,
It seemed from the heart of the oak to pore.
Hear the compliant that came to my ear,
Whilst I stood shivering in the cold with fear,
For seven long years we’ve cared for the dead,
Orur leave and tears for them we have shed,
Contagion-struck a fearful blow
To the silent tomb they were forced to go,
They were brought to this grove at dead night-
To this green young forest it gave no fright.
Quick we decided what we should do
The tall oak said, each of you,
Shall shed your leaves your only clothes,
And cover that where the dead repose.
We invited the birds all that could sing
With their songs to come and their mates to bring,
The Nightingale came with her midnight song
Sweet warbling at night and all day long.
Happy we’ve been as our leaves we have cast,
To cover these graves from winter’s cold blast,
But look-this is why we are mourning to-day
They have come and stolen our dead away.
Dug open their graves while the night dews wept,
O’er the face of the moon a dark cloud crept,
As though in shame she had hidden her face
And near could be witness to such a disgrace.
Ah! ‘twas sad to watch where we stood,
Sighing and moaning as trees and birds could,
I know ‘tis better-just as you say
To have taken our dead and place them away,
Near where the waters of the Mississinewa glide
The bright laughing waters the ebb and the tide,
No more shall we weep but with our leaves of green
Will fill up the graves so no scars can be seen.
If their spirits back to this forest may come
They’ll be just as happy in this their old home,
When watch them at night in their moonlight dance,
Stand quietly like one in a trance,
See them gamboling in their mirth and their glee
As they go flitting to most every tree.
I am glad you sought shelter this hot sultry day
Midst our leaves and our shade from the aunt scorching ray.
Now I am done I am glad to have spoke,
‘Tis happy relief to the heart of the oak.
They have gave us each a name a name that we love
Because they now call us the “Haunted Grove.”
© On The Banks Of White River/Jennifer Lewis 2016
[This article appeared in the Delaware County (Indiana) Historical Society Newsletter, January/February, 2016]
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