Hannah of Kentucky - James Otis
As mother says, those who have been killed are past all care save that of God, and the living must put away their grief to guard each other. It was my first lesson of the many needed, to make me understand how hard are the lives of the men and women who prepare the way in the wilderness.
Jemima and I sat by the embers of the neglected fire, clasped in each other's arms and weeping bitterly. Mother, thinking, perhaps, to stop us, said that it was our lot to bear these trials without repining, in the belief that a great people coming later in our footsteps would remember with gratitude our names and deeds when this vast, awful wilderness should be filled with happy, peaceful homes.
Not until the next day did Mr. Boone, my father, and the two from the Clinch River go out to bury the dead, and while they were away those of us who were not standing guard sat silently in a group.
There was never a tear on Mr. Boone's face when he came back. He spoke to no one, not even when he laid his hand on his wife's shoulder and kissed in turn each of his children; but he looked from time to time at the priming of his rifle, as if believing an opportunity might speedily come when he would be able to use the weapon against those who had caused the death of his boy.