Ladonia News, June 17, 1932:
 By Anna Bishop
 
A cemetery, as the last resting place of loved ones of the human race, will always hold something of a mystery and pathos. It has a queer fascination for most people. It is a place to meditate on the past and to get a correct idea of the right values for the present.
Try a walk over to the Ladonia cemeteries some day. The best time would be early in the morning or late in the afternoon. A carpet of green velvet spreads its protective covering over the entire acreage, gay toned flowers and dotting colors with artistic grace, stately tombs are standing sentinel among the green of the funerel cedars.
Here and there gleam well known names, whose familiarity and past associations bring thoughts " like breezes from that country far beyond life's sea".
First to greet the eye is the name of a childhood friend, a man whose hearty goodwill and fellowship are yet sweet memories in a wholly different grown-up world.
The famous "strangers's grave" claims our attention, and we recall the story of how a young man too ill to tell his name, was taken in by a good Ladonia samaratin, died , and was buried here, unknown then--- unknown now----just a stranger.
Another tomb with forethought says, "Behold ye stranger passing by, As ye are now, so once was I, as I am now, so you will be, prepare for death and follow me".
A small childs grave comes in for our attention. Some little flower planted here against the day of resurrection, whose seeming untimely and spared her the sorrows of maturity 
Here is the grave of a brilliant young scholar, whose death occurred at the very doorstep of his lady love, by his own hand, because of her refusal.
Over here lies the young girl who died almost on the eve of her wedding and for whom the dress was made that festal occasion served as a shroud.
Two tombs identical in looks, but separated by some decade of years, chronicle the resting place of pioneer husband and wife, grandparents to some of our present generation.
Another tomb which tells its own touching story reads," Mother and three infants."
Just here is the grave of a sainted preacher, the memory of whose clear cut features and snowy hair come back, his sharp cameo-like relief as we think back.
And further down is resting the beloved family doctor whose tender hands so often ministered to pain and suffering.
Here and there are graves of Ladonia's soldier dead---many veterans of the war between the states, several of the Spanish-American war, and then a few of our own boys who fell in the World War.Of the latter we pause in reverance before each as we pass by.Powell Walker, first of our boys to go, and whose body came back home from across the sea, is noted among these.
There are two monuments here to people buried elsewhere, one to a soldier boy who sleeps in Scotland.
A graceful shaft bears beside the name, age, and death of the fair girl who rests there, the inscription "She hath done what she could." And, as the story goes, was erected in gratitude by those she saved to the memory of one who gave her life for others.
These are only a few stories, whose "Finis" is written over there in that silent "God's acre" which we call Ladonia Cemetery.