old patriarch, lover of life and growth and beauty, friend of man, and herald of human happiness.
Daisies, wild iris, tiger lilies, gentians, and the queen's lace handkerchief were blooming in the fields of old Albemarle, the butterfly weed on the fences, and the trumpet flowers in the trees, when they buried Thomas Jefferson on a rainy day on the slope of the mountain side. Three days later the Richmond Enquirer announced under heavy lines of black that Thomas Jefferson was no more.
Mrs. Bankhead's death preceded his by a few months. Previously he had written her from Monticello:
"Dear Anne:
". . . Nothing new has happened in our neighborhood since you left us. The houses and the trees stand where they did; the flowers come forth like the belles of the day, have their short reign of beauty and splendor, and retire like them to the more interesting office of reproducing their like. The hyacinths and tulips are off the stage; the irises are giving place to the Bella-donna, as these will to the tuberoses, as your mama has done to you, my dear Anne, as you will do to the sisters of little John, and as I shall soon and cheerfully do to you all, in wishing you a long, long good night."
Th. Jefferson.
[31]
