Cemeteries:  Douglas Cemetery Article, Lincoln Parish, Louisiana
Submitted by:  Linda Green, Linda497@webtv.net

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Cemetery Links the Past
by Norman Richardson, State Editor of the Times.

     Ruston-the strong and the lucky lived, but the weak died very
young. In the quiet, tree-shaded Doulas Cemetery near Ruston, are the
links between this area's beginning and today. Here lie the men and
women and the children who, pushing west in search of a new and better
life, settled down in this locale more than 130 years ago. Here rest
some of the tradesmen and the artisans, the businssmen and the dirt
farmers who proceded us. Here, too are veterans of the Civil War and the
Spainish-American War, two world wars and Korea. Many records and names
on the headstones have been erased by the weather and time, but those
remaining tell many stories. Over near a tall, spreading cedar tree and
enclosed by wire picket fence are the graves of two children, Charles
Eugene and Celia Jane, children of Abram and Sarah Stow. Charles lived
less than a month and died in 1859. His sister was almost two when she
died two days after Charles. It is easy to speculate on what caused
their deaths...fire, yellow fever or yellow jack, something then called
colontis...but no one will ever know. Sleep on, sweet Celia Jane, and
take thy rest; God called thee home, He thought it best," reads the
inscription on Celia's headstone. You look at the graves of the
children in Douglas Cemetery and you wonder how many dreams of parents
died with them. Other inscriptions tell stories of pain and long
suffering and all reflect the deep religious feeling amoung the early
settlers. No pain and no grief and no sorrrow can reach Daddy now, reads
one monument, while many others carry simple veres like " A precious one
from us is gone." And here are the graves of olders, those who survived
the fevers and illnesses for which there was no medicine to hack out
settements like Douglas and Choudrant and Ruston, all in an area later
to become Lincoln Parish. There are no plants and industries or busy
highways to mar the serene beauty covering the old cemetery like a
shroud, only a little traveled paved road with a few old homsteads
along-side. Stand for a moment under the giant cedar in the middle of
the cemetery, close your eyes and everything disappears. Listen
carefully and you might hear the sound of wagon wheels or the whack of
an ax againt a tree being felled for a new home, hymns being sung in
soft, reverent voices being carried on breezes from a litttle church
down the road. Perhaps some of those here once saw themselves as
children of destiny. Others may have only wanted nothing but a plot of
land to call their own while giving little or no thought to future
generations. Even the old Indian buried somewhere in Douglas might have
visioned himself as a future chief once or maybe he only longed to be
with his people whoever they were. Other Indians are also buried here,
so legends say, and some speculation has arisen down through the years
that the cemetery was once an Indian burial ground long before the white
man began cutting through the rolling hills. Perhaps those buried here
in Douglas are aware of the many changes being made all around them.
Perhaps too, they agree it is best that Douglas be spared this thing
called progress.