An old man traveling a lone Highway,
             Came at the evening cold and gray,
             To a chasm vast, deep and wide,
             Through which was flowing a sullen tide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim,

The sullen stream held no fears for him

But he turned when safe on the other side,

And builded a bridge to span the ride.

Old man, cried a fellow pilgrim near, 
Youre wasting your time in building here. 
Your journey will end with the closing day; 
You never again will pass this way.

You have crossed the chasm deep and wide, 

Why build you this bridge at eventide?
The builder lifted his old gray head, 
Good friend, in the path I have come he said, 
There followeth after me today

A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This stream, which has been as naught to me, 
To that fair-haired youth may pitfall be.

He, too, must cross in the twilight dim,

Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.

--Miss Will Allen Dromgole.

 

Mayo and Robert have built this ancestral bridge for those Autry s and Culbreths who will follow us, and we hope they will keep the torch alive.

            A  fire-mist and a planet, A crystal and a cell, A jellyfish and a saurian,

    And caves where the cave-men dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty,

    And a face turned from the clod,Some call it Evolution,

    And others call it God.

        A  haze on the far horizon,
        The infinite, tender sky,
        The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high,And all over upland and lowland
        The charm of the goldenrod,Some of us call it Autumn,
        And others call it God.

         Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, 
           When the moon is new and thin,
        Into our hearts high yearnings 
            Come welling and surging m. Come from the mystic ocean,

Whose rim no foot has trod,Some of us call it Longing,

And others call it God.

     A  picket frozen on duty,A mother starved for her brood,Socrates drinking the hemlock
    And Jesus on the rood;
    And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway plod,Some call it Consecration,
    And others call it God.

William Herbert Carruth

1859-1924

 

In March of 1977, while working in the Quaker Room at Guilford College, two researchers from Indiana heard me make an inquiry about one of my great-grandfathers, Rix Bundy, a famous Quaker minister. From this incident developed one of the dearest friendships of my life. John (now deceased) and lone (now 90 and living in Friends Home in Greensboro, NC.), spent many days at their own expense, researching original legal documents on the Bundys, Winslows, Henleys, Autry s, Culbreths and Maxwells. This book reflects much of their work. They were individuals of the highest qualities, and became very special friends of Norma and me.