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You're listening to a morbid network podcast.

Hi, it's me, the O.G. Green Grump, the Grinch.

Listen as I launch a campaign against Christmas cheer,

grilling celebrity guests, like chestnuts on an open fire.

They'll try to get my heart to grow a few sizes,

but it's not gonna to work, honey.

Follow Tis the Grinch Holiday Talk Show on the Wondria app, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sylvester Ruprit, 37 years of age, an Englishman by birth and by trade as ship carpenter, lived with his wife and two children in a house on Bedero Street.

In October last, the Yellow Fever, then prevailing, counted among its victims the youngest

child of the Rupert's, their little girl Lizzy, about four years old, and the particular

pet of the father.

This was a blow from which the father never recovered.

Not able to buy a tomb, he had the child buried in the ground in Greenwood Cemetery.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

The grief preyed heavily upon him.

It was his only thought, and being out of his regular employment, he found employment in his grief.

He bought a burial lot and some bricks and other material and with his own hands and all alone in the cemetery built him a brick tomb.

He had not the means to make the tomb a stylish one, so in its mouth or entrance, he fitted a wooden frame, and on this frame he fitted a piece of board and secured it with screws in its four corners. On his board with which he enclosed

the vault in lieu of the usual brick and mortar or marble slab he had carved nicely with his knife, the burial inscription of his child.

The tomb finished, he disinterred the child's body and placed it there.

He fastened the board with screws in order that he might

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