The Calico Coffin

It was a long time ago, back in the late 1800s. There was a family of four, mother and a father, son and a daughter. They lived in the western part of the county, back in the foothills.

The daughter was beautiful. She was 17 years old. Her hair was long and willowy, and it looked like sunlight on ripen grain. Her cheeks always had a red flush to them, but she used nothing for color except every now and then when she'd go to a square dance, she might paint her cheeks just a little.

One May Morning, the young girl, took ill. Her cheeks lost their rosy color, and her skin, which used to be as white as the underside of a dove, it lost its glow, and her skin turned grey.

The mother worked with the girl. She gathered herbs, vaulted into tea, and she gave it to her young daughter. But the girl seemed to get sicker. Her health was failing her, and by the morning sun the girl was gone.

Her spirit left her silently. Her mother was asleep in the early hours, and when she awoke she saw the girl lying still on the bed. The mother rubbed her eyes to chase away the sleep, and she tried to see breathing, but there was none.

The bed was quiet. The mother went over and she touched her daughter, and she felt a chill, cold, gray damp feeling from the child. As quiet as the mood in the room, the mother walked over to the window, and she looked out. She stood there several minutes, watching the fog spin off in patterns.

Then the tears came, and she could see nothing. Later, the father and the son took Maddox and shovels to the family graveyard. And they spent most of the day digging the grave. When they came back to the house, the mother was standing on the porch and her eyes were pained with the tears of the day full of weeping. We should use the old cedar box, she said, and