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Virtue would be 120 years old today, if she (or he?) were alive.

 

I was walking off a foul mood the other day through Trinity Church Cemetery—my local cemetery—when one of those curious headstone inscriptions grabbed me:

 

VIRTUE S. HARM

FEB. 23, 1891

JAN. 30, 1950

 

Meaning no irreverence, I laughed. I naturally assumed the name was genuine, since it was writ in costly stone to mark a burial. But its play on words struck me as too obvious to miss.

 

I love the pun intended. Reading it aloud—“Virtue S. Harm,”—the name inevitably sounded like virtuous harm, like some choice brand of tough love. Anyhow, I was grateful it had made me smile against my will.

 

Happy Birthday!

 

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