THE PETRIFIED FERN.
In a valley, centuries ago,
Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,
Veining delicate and fibres tender,
Waving when the wind crept down so low.
Rushes tall and moss and grass grew round it,
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,
Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it;
But no foot of man e’er trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.
Monster fishes swam the silent main,
Stately forests waved their giant branches,
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;
Nature revelled in grand mysteries,
But the little fern was not of these,
Did not number with the hills and trees,
Only grew and waved its wild, sweet way.
No one came to note it, day by day.
Earth one time put on a frolic mood,
Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion
Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean;
Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood;
Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay—
Covered it, and hid it safe away.
O the long, long centuries since that day!
O the changes! O life’s bitter cost,
Since the useless little fern was lost!
Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man
Searching for Nature’s secrets, far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep,
He withdrew a stone, o’er which there ran
Fairy pencillings, a quaint design,
Leafage, veining fibres, clear and fine,
And the fern’s life lay in every line!
So, I think, God hides some souls away,
Sweetly to surprise us, the last day.

Shortly after mention, in this chapter, of some of the descendants of the Rogerene leaders, Mr. John R. Bolles was called to join those heroes whose vindication he had so conscientiously undertaken, in the cause of justice and of truth. It remains to add to the above list of descendants some notice of this deceased writer, who not only bore the names of both of the principal Rogerene leaders, but was a direct descendant of both, his mother being a daughter of John Rogers, 3d, and his father a grandson of John Bolles. For this purpose is here presented the briefest of the several obituary notices that appeared in New London papers, being an editorial in the Daily Telegraph, of February 26, 1895.

The death of John Rogers Bolles removes from the people one who might be regarded almost as a relic of the old times when men were inspired to bear messages to the world. He was a bold and persistent fighter of what he deemed wrong and an active and indefatigable warrior for the right; any cause in which he was engaged was certain to have the whole benefit of his energies. The achievements of Mr. Bolles for his city and state have been fully set forth in the number of brilliant and graphic papers he contributed to The Telegraph and which were read with the widest interest, not only by those here but in other states. But it was not left for himself to chronicle his work. Some of the greatest men of the nation have been his friends and have repeatedly testified their admiration and respect for his remarkable qualities of mind. Mr. Bolles had a memory that was something prodigious. He was able to correct with the utmost ease the most trivial misplacements of a word in a MS. of many thousands, and his familiarity with the Book and all authors, ancient and modern, was also little less than a marvel, considering his lack of sight in later years. His reasoning powers were keen and wonderfully swift, he could anticipate and provide means against an emergency in an inconceivably short time, and as a tactician in the fight for New London’s rights he was one of the most skilful and adroit of managers. Had he devoted his life to other than the work which was his sole aim, he would undoubtedly have won national pre-eminence. But after leaving the business of publishing, in which he was very successful and which he brought to a high degree of excellence here, he went with all his energies for the development of the Navy Yard, and in the pursuit of this object he spared nothing, himself least of all. He was very fluent in speech. His figures were always grand and forcible, and the magnetic power of his utterance carried away his audience. His pen is well known. There was a wonderful power of imagery in him, and he often expressed himself in verse of no mean order. His capacity for doing literary labor was something enormous; he could turn out a volume that would stagger an industrious man, and yet be fresh to tackle another subject after five or six consecutive hours of steady application. New London owes a great deal to John R. Bolles, how much it will understand more fully as time goes on.

But apart from his mental endowments, the grand simplicity and purity of the man deserves the highest commendation. He hated vice. He lived in virtue. His faith might not have been that of the creed follower, but he had a sublime and unshaken confidence in God and belief in His love for him and all true followers of His rules. Simple, sincere, innocent as a babe of wrong thought or act, John R. Bolles ended his long life a firm believer in the goodness and mercy of the Creator whom all that life he had worshipped with the worship of faith and act and example. In Christ he lived and in Christ he fell asleep.