Eben Holden Part 45

'Don't believe they'd burn,' he answered sorrowfully, 'they're tin.

'Couldn't we bury 'em?' I suggested.

'Be a purty costly funeral,' he answered thoughtfully. 'Ye'd hev if dig a hole deeper n Tupper's dingle.

'Couldn't you give them away?' I enquired.

'Wall,' said he, helping himself to a chew of tobacco, 'we ve tried thet. Gin 'em t'everybody we know but there ain't folks enough' there's such a slew o'them bilers. We could give one if ev'ry man, woman an'

child in Faraway an' hex enough left t'fill an acre lot. Dan Perry druv in t'other day with a double buggy. We gin him one fer his own fam'ly.

It was heavy t'carry an' he didn't seem t' like the looks uv it someway.

Then I asked him if he wouldn't like one fer his girl. "She ain't married," says he. "She will be some time," says I, "take it along," so he put in another. "You've got a sister over on the turnpike hain't ye?" says I. "Yes," says he. "Wall," I says, "don' want a hex her feel slighted." "She won't know 'bout my hevin' 'em," says he, lookin' 's if he'd hed enough. "Yis she will," I says, "she'll hear uv it an' mebbe make a fuss." Then we piled in another. "Look here," I says after that, "there s yer brother Bill up there 'bove you. Take one along fer him."

"No," says he, "I don' tell ev'ry body, but Bill an' I ain't on good terms. We ain't spoke fer more'n a year."

'Knew he was lyin',' Uncle Eb added with a laugh, 'I'd seen him talkin'

with Bill a day er two before.

'Whew!' he whistled as he looked at his big silver watch. 'I declare it's mos' one o clock They's jes' one other piece o' business if come before this meetin'. Double or single, want ye if both promise me t'be hum Crissmus.

We promised.

'Now childern,' said he. "S time if go if bed. B'lieve ye'd stan' there swappin' kisses 'till ye was knee sprung if I didn't tell ye t' quit.

Hope came and put her arms about his neck, fondly, and kissed him good-night.

'Did Bill prance right up like a man?' he asked, his hand upon her shoulder.

'Did very well,' said she, smiling, 'for a man with a wooden leg.

Uncle Eb sank into a chair, laughing heartily, and pounding his knee. It seemed he had told her that I was coming home with a wooden leg! 'That is the reason I held your arm,' she said. 'I was expecting to hear it squeak every moment as we left the depot. But when I saw that you walked so naturally I knew Uncle Eb had been trying to fool me.

'Purty good sort uv a lover, ain't he?' said he after we were done laughing.

'He wouldn't take no for an answer,' she answered.

'He was alwuss a gritty cuss,' said Uncle Eb, wiping his eyes with a big red handkerchief as he rose to go. 'Ye'd oughter be mighty happy an' ye will, too--their am'no doubt uv it--not a bit. Trouble with most young folks is they wan'if fly tew high, these days. If they'd only fly clus enough t'the ground so the could alwuss touch one foot, they'd be all right. Glad ye ain't thet kind.

We were off early on the boat--as fine a summer morning as ever dawned.

What with the grandeur of the scenery and the sublimity of our happiness it was a delightful journey we had that day. I felt the peace and beauty of the fields, the majesty of the mirrored cliffs and mountains, but the fair face of her I loved was enough for me. Most of the day Uncle Eb sat near us and I remember a woman evangelist came and took a seat beside him, awhile, talking volubly of the scene.

'My friend,' said she presently, 'are you a Christian?

"Fore I answer I'll hex if tell ye a story,' said Uncle Eb. 'I recollec' a man by the name o' Ranney over 'n Vermont--he was a pious man. Got into an argyment an' a feller slapped him in the face. Ranney turned t'other side an' then t'other an' the feller kep' a slappin' hot 'n heavy. It was jes' like strappin' a razor fer half a minnit. Then Ranney sailed in--gin him the wust lickin' he ever hed.

'"I declare," says another man, after 'twas all over, "I thought you was a Christian."

"Am up to a cert in p'int," says he. "Can't go tew fur not 'n these parts--men are tew powerful. 'Twon't do 'less ye wan'if die sudden. When he begun poundin' uv me I see I wan't eggzac'ly prepared."

"Fraid 's a good deal thet way with most uv us. We're Christians up to a cert'in p'int. Fer one thing, I think if a man'll stan' still an' see himself knocked into the nex' world he's a leetle tew good fer this.'

The good lady began to preach and argue. For an hour Uncle Eb sat listening unable to get in a word. When, at last, she left him he came to us a look of relief in his face.

'I b'lieve,' said he, 'if Balaam's a.s.s hed been rode by a woman he never 'd hev spoke.'

'Why not?' I enquired.

'Never'd hev hed a chance,' Uncle Eb added.

We were two weeks at home with mother and father and Uncle Eb. It was a delightful season of rest in which Hope and I went over the sloping roads of Faraway and walked in the fields and saw the harvesting. She had appointed Christmas Day for our wedding and I was not to go again to the war, for now my first duty was to my own people. If G.o.d prospered me they were all to come to live with us in town and, though slow to promise, I could see it gave them comfort to know we were to be for them ever a staff and refuge.

And the evening before we came back to town Jed Feary was with us and Uncle Eb played his flute and sang the songs that had been the delight of our childhood.

The old poet read these lines written in memory of old times in Faraway and of Hope's girlhood.

'The red was in the clover an' the blue was in the sky: There was music in the meadow, there was dancing in the rye; An' I heard a voice a calling to the flocks o' Faraway An' its echo in the wooded hills--Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!

O fair was she--my lady love--an' lithe as the willow tree, An' aye my heart remembers well her parting words t' me.

An' I was sad as a beggar-man but she was blithe an' gay An' I think o' her as I call the flocks Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!

Her cheeks they stole the dover's red, her lips the odoured air, An' the glow o' the morning sunlight she took away in her hair; Her voice had the meadow music, her form an' her laughing eye Have taken the blue o' the heavens an' the grace o' the bending rye.

My love has robbed the summer day--the field, the sky, the dell, She has taken their treasures with her, she has taken my heart as well; An' if ever, in the further fields, her feet should go astray May she hear the good G.o.d calling her Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!

Chapter 41

I got a warm welcome on Monkey Hill. John Trumbull came to dine with us at the chalet the evening of my arrival. McGlingan had become editor-in-chief of a new daily newspaper. Since the war began Mr Force had found ample and remunerative occupation writing the 'Obituaries of Distinguished Persons. He sat between Trumbull and McGlingan at table and told again of the time he had introduced the late Daniel Webster to the people of his native town.

Reciting a pa.s.sage of the immortal Senator he tipped his beer into the lap of McClingan. He ceased talking and sought pardon.

'It is nothing, Force--nothing,' said the Scotchman, with great dignity, as he wiped his coat and trousers. 'You will pardon me if I say that I had rather be drenched in beer than soaked in recollections.

'That's all right,' said Mr Opper, handing him a new napkin. 'Yes, in the midst of such affliction I should call it excellent fun, McClingan added. 'If you ever die, Force, I will preach the sermon without charge.

'On what text?' the obituary editor enquired.

'"There remaineth therefore, a rest for the people of G.o.d,"'quoth McClingan solemnly. 'Hebrews, fourth chapter and ninth verse.

'If I continue to live with you I shall need it,' said Force.

'And if I endure to the end,' said McClingan, 'I shall have excellent Christian discipline; I shall feel like opening my mouth and making a loud noise.

McGlingan changed his garments and then came into my room and sat with us awhile after dinner.

'One needs ear lappers and a rubber coat at that table,' said he.

'And a chest protector,' I suggested, remembering the finger of Force.