" When death first broke into the little band, and a grave was to be made in the wildermess, how sad and solemn must have been the scene. The rude coffin, by the door of a ruder cabin, was placed out in the calm, cold light of the winter morning. The planters came, one after another, with their wives and children. And when, after a fervent prayer from some patriarchal voice, the sleeper was bore off, by a half- worn path, to the place of burial on Meeting Hill, what tears and sobs made strange notes among the shivering trees.”