The Northern Pacific farmer. [volume] (Wadena, Minn.) 1878-1885, 1884-07-10
gir.ddle, she looks at the ceiling, relieved
and thoug ~.

10, she looks at the ceiling, relieved
and thoughtful. $3.50
At the church the ceremony lasts two
hours. All the clergy make an appear
Ance. Ever since norning, one has
seen only busy priests running in their
surplices and wiping their faces. In:
the middle of the nave, which is spread.
with black, is brilliant catafalque. At
last the people are seated the women
at the left, the men ct the right; and
the organ rolls out its lamentation the
singers moan softly; the children Of the
choir breathe soft signs; the torches
send up high green flames, which add
to the pomp of the ceremany.
aWill not Faure sing?" asks deputy
of his neighbor. .,s-4*-
D. Yes; I think So" replies the Ugh"
Dor, who smiles from a distance on tho
ladies'.
The voice of the singer rises CULVER
ing. :
Tia! what method, what breadth, :"
adds in low voice, swaying his head in
ecstacy.
All the assembly are fascinated. The
ladies, with smile on their lips, think
of the opera. "Faure really has TALENT"
A friend of the count goes SO far as to
say:
He never sang better. It is provok-
ing that the poor countcannot hear him,
who liked him so much"
The singers, in black cloaks, march
around the coffin. The priests, to the
number of twenty, complete the cere-
monial, bow and sprinkle holy water.
At last all those present pass before the
coffin and the holy water circulates
again.
They all go out after shaking hands
with the family. Outside the daylight
blinds the eyes of the crowd.
It is fine day in June. In front Of
the church there is some confusion.
The procession is long time in reor-
ganizing, At the corner of street two
blocks away the waving plumes of the
hearse are visible. One hears the clap
ping of the carriage doors and the trot-
ting of the horses on the pavement.
the procession moves toward the ceme-
terry. Il 49, f." :.
i In the carriages every ono was at ease;
one would think they were going for a
pleasure drive in the spring time. AS
they no longer could see the hearse, they
forgot the funeral and engage in con
versation; the ladies speak of the sum
mer season, the men chat about their
affairs.
"say, my dear. do you go to the sea
shore this year,"
"Perhaps. But not until August.
We go on Saturday to our country
place."
"Then he got the letter by fraud, and
they fought-oh! very genteeliy-a
mere scratch. Last night he dined with
ME at the club, and he won twenty-five
dollars from me-"
"Is it not the day after tomorrow that
the stockholders have their meeting
They wish to name me for the COM
mittee, but I'm so busy that I can't at
tend"
The procession moves along an av-
enue. A refreshing shadow falls from
the trees, and the chcerfulness of the
sun is over the grass. All at once q
stupid lady, who leans against carriage
door, lets slip:
+ ooh, it is charming here!'
Now the procession enters the GENE
terry. The vocies are hushed. Nothing
is heard but the grinding of the wheels
on the sanded walks. The vault of the
counts family is at the farthest end to
the left-a lofty tomb of white marble
ornamented with sculptures. They
place the coffin in front of it, and the
discourses commence.
There are four of them. The ex-
Minister of State recalls the political
life of the defunct, whom he describes
as modest genius, who would have
saved France if he had not despised in
trigue. Then friend tells of the pri-
vate virtues of him for whom all the
world weeps. Then an unknown man
spoke as delegate from an industrial
society, of which the Count was Honor.
airy President. At last little man
with sour face presents the regrets Of
the Academy of Moral Science. Dur.
ing all this time those assembled have
interested themselves with the adjoin.
ing tombs.
An old man with pinched lips, afte,
catching this part of a phrase: "The
qualities of heart, generosity, goodness
lofty character" shakes his chin as he
murmurs:
''Well, yes, knew him; it is dog
ended"
The last adieu is lost in the air, and
soon there are none left in this secluded
corner, but the grave diggers who low
cred the coffin. The count is at home
And the countess, on her lounge, ha:
not stirred. She continues to play with
the tassel of her girdle, her eyes on the
ceiling, lost in reverie, which, little
by little, has colored her blonde cheeks