I never saw Mary Phagan; she was artless
and beautiful, the neighbors say. But I have
seen her mother, who looks like Mary’s pict
ure, only a little older. I saw her on the
witness stand, a pathetic figure, as she told
of her daughter’s farewell word when she
left home that fateful day to get her wage
envelope at the factory of w’hich Frank was
superintendent.
And that, too, was a Memorial Day—that
day of Mary’s tragedy. It was April 26, a hol
iday in this great city of the Southland, for
Southern veterans and Southern sons and
daughters of the men who wore the Grey
were placing love-wreaths on 9,000 Con
federate graves in beautiful Oakland ceme
tery, that spreads out over grassy slopes in
the very heart of Atlanta.
The big Pencil factory was officially closed.
But Frank was there, and Conley, the negro,
whom you must have believed, Mr. Editor,
had you heard him on the witness stand, as
I heard him, tell the story of Frank’s bar
gain with him for the disposal of poor
Mary Phagan's dead body.
