For more than 20 years, I’ve driven by and never noticed it. Pulling over to study the rocks in an old stone wall from my truck, I saw it not 10 feet away. An old metal fence closely surrounded a single gravestone.

The little cemetery was deeply shaded by thick hemlocks on a small knoll that dropped off sharply beside an active little brook. It was the final abode of Marion Abbott, a 17-year-old girl who died in 1860.

Alone on the edge of the road – me for the moment; she for eternity – I contemplated Marion and her place. She must have spent a lot of time there and enjoyed the solitude. The fence told me that. I wondered if it was her idea, if she’d had time to think about where she wanted to be buried and how her grave would look, or if she passed on too quickly and her family made the decisions.

The fence: Was it meant to preserve her privacy in death? Did Marion cherish alone time in her short life? Would she prevent others from ever sitting there in her special place? Or was it to stop someone from following her to the great forever?

Looking around, I envisioned the place 150 years ago.

There was the same dirt road with stone walls on either side, but with sunny, rolling, green pastures behind them instead of dark hemlocks. Did she lie down there alone and chew on grass stems, or did she bring a picnic lunch to share with someone else? Did she watch animals graze and drink from the brook now surrounded by forest?

I climbed over the mossy stone wall and stood on a thick, spongy, 100-year-old bed of hemlock needles covering the lower part the inscription on the marble headstone. The knees of my pants moistened, and the piney smell was strong as I knelt to read the summary of Marion’s life:

“MARION

“daut of James E & Mary F Abbott

“died July 31, 1861 AE 17 yrs 6 mos

“Dearest friend, thy pains are ended

“Thou hast found a better home

“Thy songs are now with angels blended

“Where no death nor sorrows come”

Climbing back into my truck, I drove off slowly in second gear, thinking about Marion, wondering what she might have looked like, how she dressed. I wasn’t in as much of a hurry as I used to be. I checked my rearview mirror frequently and pulled over to let others rush by. I don’t think they liked it too much, but I enjoyed it.

I hadn’t gone far when I noticed a big old oak with heavy limbs beside the road – a clue to the location of an old cellar hole. Sure enough, on the other side of the road was a line of split granite stones and a break in the wall. Again I was surprised to see a family cemetery dominated by an obelisk in the center. I walked over and climbed the stone stairs leading up the raised earthen platform that comprised the Smith Cemetery. On the base of the obelisk was the following epitaph:

“HERBERT

“Son of Simon & Mary Ann Smith

“Aged 16 YRS 10 M’s

“Wounded at Cold Harbor June 3, 1864

“Died in Baltimore, Md June 23, 1864

“at National Camden Hospital

Why did you go off like that, Herbert? You were too young to be killed in battle. Then I remembered that more than 100,000 boys lied about their ages on both sides in the Civil War. As two crows flew lazily over the surrounding treetops, their caws absorbed by the deep woods, I realized Marion and Herbert very likely knew each other.

Did Herbert ever look longingly on the more mature Marion, wishing he were older? He would have been 12 when she died, and the war started only months after. Was his decision to go off and fight influenced by her passing? Did he see her alone by the brook? Did he join her and talk?

Herbert’s grave was the most prominent, but his baby sister, Ella Smith, was born the same year he died. Perhaps he was in camp somewhere far away when she was born and read about her in a letter from his mother.

It was apparent that the Smith family survived in Stow much longer than the Abbott family. Did the Abbotts join the great migration westward with the many others from these parts? The woods taking over the Smith farm were less mature than those around Marion’s grave down the street. Herbert’s parents lived on until 1901 and 1903 and were buried next to him. The farm was worked well into the 20th century, and the remains of an old automobile were discernible among the encroaching juniper and alders near the barn foundation.

The woods hold many stories. So do the stones. But most are forgotten.

Tom McLaughlin, a teacher and columnist, lives in Lovell. His e-mail address is [email protected].