Half a mile uphill form the town, along a road where the tall pines sigh for the mourning families, is the Hahndorf cemetery. In days gone by nearly the whole town used to gather for the funeral of one of the old settlers. The church bell would toll until the cemetery bell took up the plaintive note. The service at the graveside was lengthy, the pastor giving a history of the family and of the terminal illness, followed by prayers and hymns sung by the choir. Then several men would remove their coats and take up the shovels.

Picnic lunch was eaten in the shelter shed, after which everyone set about tidying up the graves of their relatives.

Every grave has its' story. One of the most poignant is that of Dr. Auricht's young wife, who died giving birth to twins, who also died. Dr. Auricht served the district for forty-five years. It was said that he never lost a mother. His wife's grave is marked by a life-sized angel with a cherub on each arm.  Tragic drama too, was the lot of Camille Born who came to make a new life in Australia after her fiancé had been accidentally killed. As she was leaving her ship at Port Adelaide she slipped and fell, and died so that her brother brought her to his gaily decorated and welcoming home—a corpse.

The hearse used in the early days was drawn by two black horses adorned with elegant black plumes and driven by groomsmen in black silk top hats. The vehicle was donated by a Mr. Hertzog. His tombstone had stood so long in Bom's yard awaiting the day of his death that a shelter had to be built over it. His coffin, which was stored in his attic, had been tried for size by all the village lads, and all its gold fringe had been eaten off by moths.

Now, the sorrows have passed and all are sleeping, awaiting the great Day of Judgement in which Lutherans believe so devoutly.