The Somerset reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1868-1909, 1901-05-23

| "Thar's goin to be great doin's Me
mortal day, l hear" said the widow
Jane Bump, who was calling on Miss
Hetty PringIe one early May after
noon.
Miss Hetty, faded, withered old
maid, stopped pairing apples long
enough to murmur a gentle assent
The widow, who was an acknowledged
authority on all the gossip of the dis.
trict, ratified volubly on: They're a-goin
to hey the band over from May Town
an Elder SCOTS a-comin from Dur.
keyyille, an they tell me that Lawyer
Frank Griswold is to speech make.
| heerd him last year to Sherman, an
land, 'ow he did holler! He's got a
voice you kin hear hore'n a mile, an
when he called on them soldiers by
name, in Sherman buryin ground, |
shouldn't hey ben one mite surprised
to see em git right out of their graves
Gabr'efs trump want nothin to it.
And the widow who was facetiously
inclined shook her rotund shoulders
with laughter.
Miss Hetty smiled sympathetically
and went on pairing apples.
Then, after the exercise, singin by
the Presbyterian an Baptist choirs an
prayin by the ministers an yellin by
Lawyer Griswold, then the bandit
play real solemn music, an eyerybody'll
go round an lay flowers on the soldiers
graves. Oh, it'll be grand! It's high
time Brokenstraw was up an a-doln
somethin like this. l tell the folks
we're way behind the times"
Il suppose" said Miss Hetty nerv-
ously, that they'll decorate in bott
cemeteries"
Both cemeteriesw cried the Widow
Bump in amazement "Why, there
hain't no soldiers buried on the hill"
There's William Bond" said Miss
Hetty timidly, and even as she spoke
a faint flush crept to her faded cheek,
as the dying rays of the sunset illu-
mine for one instant frosty, icebound
landscape.
"William Bond" with a sort of dis,
dain. He! Why, Miss Hetty, you
know he never amounted to a row Of
pins. He was a wuthless, shiftless
critter dunno why anybody should
want to decorate him"
and yet he died for his country just
as much as the Others" interposed
Miss Hetty, with n trembling voice
well, good land, Hetty Pringle,
who is a-goin to climb that hill an
scramble through them berry bushes
to put flowers on the grave of sech a
good for nothin"
"Don'tr' said Miss Hetty, rising
fiercely. II can't bear to hear you
speak SO of him of any man who
gave up his life for his country"
"Waal, waal," retorted the widow
testify, Il dunno as it hurts him. He's
been dead long enough, so he shouldn't
have no feelin, an as for you do re-
member now you was kinder sweet on
him. WAL. waal! No offense." And
the widow took herself away to tell
the story at her next visit
Miss Hetty sat as one in a dream.
The panorama of her simple life I'M
folded before her. She saw herself
young and fair again; she recalled a
handsome, happy go lucky face she had
loved many years ago-the face of the
ne'er do well of the village; she heard
again his voice as he said goOdby to
her: when | come back. I'll try to be
different III make man of myself,
and then-IIettyw
She remembered how she had an
swered that question. Again the lone
ly little old maid felt strong arms in
fold her and the pressure of young lips
on her cheek. But he never came back
to claim her. and he lay now alone, for
gotten by his former neighbors and
friends-by all save by one faithful,
sad old heart.
Twilight deepened into night. Miss
Hetty rose and, lighting her lamp, sat
down to read as was her evening Gus
tom. Tonight she picked up a volume
of old verse. 1t was one William Bond,
private had given her when they went
to school together. The first poem
that caught her attention was:
How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest2
By fairy hands their knc is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung
There Honor comes. pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay.
Miss Hetty sighed, turned over a few
pages and read;
On Fames eternal camping ground
Their silent tents spread
And Glory guards with solemn round
The byouac Of the dead.
"Their silent tentsv The words rang
In Miss Hetty's ears. She pictured the
tents of the living-a vast forest of
snowy canvas. the white tents of an ar
my. From the corners of her fancy
came suddenly the crash Of splendid
brasses. She saw flags futtering, heard
sharp commands, the tramping and
neighing of horses, the jingle of accou-
terments, and then bugle call cut the
silence OF the lonely little room.
The scene suddenly changed to the
tents of the silent-those low, green
tents whose curtain, as the poet has
said. never outward swings. And one
low, green tent on the summit of a
lofty hill and away In the depths of a
solemn forest especially appealed to
her. Miss Hetty dropped her book and,
leaning back In her chair, closed her