Books [Charles Monroe]
“Like my sidewalk?” asked Mr. Monroe laughingly. “Everybody is interested in it when they first see it. I got the stones from an old graveyard that had to be moved to make way for a new road. After the bodies were taken up and given new burial, it was discovered that there were too many stones for the number of graves. So I asked the road superintendent if I might have them, and he was glad to let me take them away. You see even a grave-stone can serve a practical purpose. Of course the drawback here is that visitors always have to stop to read the inscriptions. Perhaps I should have planted them face down.”
As my host had mentioned, it was indeed a fine, mellow autumn day. The leaves of the trees had fallen, out there was still plenty of live color in the landscape. We started on a road that ran straight toward a distant mountain, but in a few minutes we turned off on a descending back road that took us to a secluded valley where a few farms reposed in their autumn ripeness. On one of these farms some of the town's homeless people were kept. It was not an unattractive place. A fine valley and mountain view could be seen from the large, well-shaped old house that, according to Mr. Monroe, at the present time housed four old men.
We found one quavering old fellow sitting on a bench in the sunshine playing or trying to play a harmonica. I would not say that he looked unhappy, but his face certainly lighted when he saw