A MEMORIAL DAY AT THE CORNERS. T By Herbert Copeland. HREE men were sitting one April morning on the wooden bench outside the small building which served the little settlement of Westham Corners as post office, store and general lounging place and which was also, in the upper story, the home of the storekeeper Israel Bacon and his wife Hannah. Westham Corners was, so to speak, a suburb of Westham, itself a small village in a remote district of New England, but large and flourishing compared to the Corners. The Corners was five miles over the hills from Westham, and there was no railroad; a coach, so called by courtesy, ran daily between the two places. There were only about twenty houses at the Corners, and there was no church. The people had never been able to build a church or afford a minister of their own. The schoolhouse served as a church, and the minister drove over from Westham for afternoon service; there was no morning service. Sometimes Deacon Brown had prayers in the evening; the people said he ought to have been a minister, he could pray so well. Back of the schoolhouse was the graveyard; it seemed disproportionate to the size of the settlement, but the Corners had been settled for a long time and the graveyard bore solemn witness to the fact. The three men, as they sat in the sun that bright April morning, glanced now and then at the schoolhouse across the way and the graveyard beyond it. "Wal!" said the oldest of them, a man with white hair and a white beard under his chin, "I don't see why we can't hev some sort o' celebration on Decoration Day 's well 's other towns. To be sure, Jim Piper 's the only soldier we sent to the war, and there ain't but one grave there,"-he nodded towards the unkempt field behind the schoolhouse,-"but I reck'n that ain't no reason why he shouldn't hev his dues 's well 's if there was a dozen of 'em lyin' round him, as there is over t' the village. I hold we ought to hev some sort of a time this year." "I "I think so too," said Jed Barker, the older of the other two men. sh'd think it would be a sight o' comfort to ol' Mis' Piper. I sh'd think she'd feel kind o' hurt we ain't never took no notice of her son-not even to put a flag on his grave." "I sh'd think she'd 'a' done it herself if she'd wanted it," said the youngest man of the three. "She does put lilacs on the grave every year,-but any one ken hev them, if they ain't died for their country. I sh'd want a flag on my grave,—I know that.” "It sartinly is a good idee," said the old man. "I guess she do feel kind o' hurt. Hain't you never noticed how sort o' quiet she is, come Decoration Day every year? An' I shouldn't be s'prised if it's 'cause she thinks Jim's been sort o' neglected, though I al'ays thought before 'twas 'cause she felt extry lonesome on them days 'thout either him or his father." "Le's see," said Barker, "ol' Jim died 'bout two year after his son, didn't he? 'Twas mighty hard on the ol' woman, layin' of 'em both away so nigh together." "They was the most broke up couple I ever see," observed the old man, "when the news come about Jim's death down South; an' the ol' man started right off for the body." "An' they spent," said the young man, "nigh onto all the money they had laid by, gettin' of it home, didn't they?" "Yes," said the other, "an' we never heard much about it neither. Ye see, Jim's regiment wa'n't near none of the other boys that went from these parts, an' they didn't know nothin' 'bout it, nor jest when he was killed. It al'ays seemed queer we didn't hear more partic'lars. But ye see them Pipers, 'specially Mis' Piper, was al'ays a terrible quiet set, an' they didn't say nothin'. The coffin wa'n't never opened, an' there wa'n't no funeral to speak of-ol' Parson Bolles coine from Ridgeway an' jest made a prayer. I think 'twas sort of onchristian like." "Well, I sh'd 'a' thought they'd wanted an oration, shouldn't you?an' poetry, like Ann Maria Phips had 'bout her son Jake-an' she had five left beside." "I sh'd think they would; but Mis' Piper was al'ays terrible queer, and losin' of her only son made her queerer 'n ever. They's a heap o' difference whether ye hev only one son an' lose him, or whether ye have five or six left." "I say, le's go in an' speak to Israel 'bout this. He's a good hand at gettin' up things. An' if we are goin' to do anythin' 'bout celebratin' this year, 'tain't none too soon to start. We ain't none too spry 'bout doin' things here t' the Corners." The three men got up and went into the small store. They had a long talk with Israel Bacon and his wife, who agreed with them in all things. During the week they called on the rest of the people at the Corners. It was decided to have a celebration as they proposed. But it was not to be till the afternoon of Memorial Day, for all wanted to go to Westham in the morning to hear the speeches and have lunch, then come back to the Corners towards evening, and decorate the one grave. They were to buy a silk flag for the grave and have an "imperishable piece" of flowers sent from the city-a column with an eagle on top of it; it was to be finer than any piece at Westham itself, and was bought by a subscription from the Corners. Mrs. Piper was to know nothing about the celebration till the time came-Mrs. Israel Bacon was to see to that. The plans were all made, and time wore slowly on to the end of May; the coming celebration was the one topic of conversation both at Westham and the Corners. Memorial Day dawned fair and warm. The trees and the grass seemed greener than the day before; the birds sang blithelier; spring was everywhere. The lilac bushes waved their greenish purple plumes, and here and there in a sheltered nook the splendid purple sprays were in full blossom. Mrs. Piper did not go to bed the night before. She sat by the window till every house in the village was dark. Then she got up and lighted her lamp. She took it in her trembling hand and went slowly up the stairs to the small room in the east gable-the room that had been Jin's. Here she set the lamp upon the bureau -the room had not been changed for many years and, taking a key from her pocket, opened the top drawer. In it was a faded blue uniform, some worn shoes, a belt, a cap,—all that had been brought home on the body of her She lifted them carefully from the drawer and placed them one by one upon the narrow bed, forming something like the effigy of a human figure. She sat on the chair by the head of the bed, her head bowed in her hands, her elbows resting on the pillow by the side of the faded cap. son. One hour she sat there, two hours -three hours; her head fell forward on the pillow, and she slept. There was perfect stillness in the room. The kitchen clock below struck one-two three; it began to grow light. Four, the eastern sky cast a paie light into the room; the first red rays of the rising sun fell on the wall behind the bed, opposite the window, on the worn face of the sleeping woman, on the faded cap. The woman stirred in her sleep; she woke, and looked about her, dazed. The bright sun filled the room; the lamp flame was a pale red spot on the bureau; then it went out. She sat for a moment and looked upon the bed; the clothes were hideous in their shabbiness. She rose, put them back in the drawer, locked it, and put the key in her pocket. She sighed as she left the room. Her year was over, -another year had begun. For this was Mrs. Piper's New Year's Dayby this day she had counted her time. for twenty years. She went down stairs; the stuffy odors of the shut kitchen greeted her; she opened the door and went out. She went to her white lilac bush; it was in a southern corner and was in full bloom, white as snow and glistening with the dew. She gathered an armful of the blossoms. The wet spray fell soft and refreshing on her withered cheeks. She took one spray from the purple bush, and then went down the path, across the road, up to the graveyard, and straight to a lot in which there were two graves. She laid the white lilacs on one, her son's; the purple on the other. She knelt for a moment, and then went back across the road and began the day's homely, wearisome duties. The clock struck five. A few minutes after, when Deacon Brown looked out of his door, he noticed the lilacs on the grave and called to his wife: "Marthy, Mis' Piper's been to the cemet'ry a'ready. Won't she be pleased to-night to see that elegant piece standin' on the grave, an' the flag wavin' over it?" So thought the rest of the neighbors as they noticed the lilacs on their way to Westham. The day proved a hot one. About six o'clock Mrs. Bacon called on Mrs. Piper. The two women sat talking for some time by the window and looking out towards the graveyard. The white lilacs had withered and turned brown during the day. Mrs. Bacon, at the faint sound of a drum, the signal agreed upon, asked Mrs. Piper to go with her over to Jim's grave. Mrs. Piper got up with a weary sigh, and put on her black bonnet. The two women sauntered across the road and up into the graveyard. Presently the drum was heard again, this time accompanied by the whistle of a fife. The woman in black trembled and clutched her friend's arm. "What is it, Hannah?" she exclaimed. "I hear a drum and fife. What is it?" "Oh, I guess 'tain't anythin' special, Mis' Piper," the other woman replied. She was afraid her companion would leave. But soon it was unmistakable; there was the sound of drum and fife; and down the road they saw people approaching. Mrs. Bacon seized her friend's arm and whispered: "It's the folks a-comin' to decorate Jim's grave. They are goin' to honor him like the rest of the soldiers. They've got a flag to put on his grave; an' Deacon Brown's goin' to make a prayer, an' the new young minister from Westham's a-goin' to make a speech." Mrs. Piper gave one gasp for breath and stood as white and still as a stone. Twenty carriages, or so, of all sorts and kinds, drove up in front of the school-house; the people dismounted, hitched their horses, and formed the procession. First came Jed Barker, carrying a big flag; then came two old men, one with a drum, one with a fife; and behind them four other men, one carrying the flag for the grave, and one the "piece" from the city. They had all seen service in the war. Behind them came old Deacon Brown, and beside him the new minister from Westham, a young man with a fresh, bright face. Then came the people, men, women and children. The drum and fife played "Marching through Georgia" as they came up the path. As they entered the graveyard the music ceased. The people formed a ring about the grave and the two women standing by it. The deacon made a prayer. The drum and fife wailed the dead march; the flag was placed at the head of the grave; the column, with its surmounting eagle, at the foot. The music ceased. The minister stepped forward into the ring by the grave and spoke. He spoke of the honor of war, of the splendor of victory, of the nobleness of giving one's life for one's country, of the saddened homes, of the joy of the mother in surrendering her son to her country, and closed by repeating the lines: "How sleep the dead who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest, When Spring" "Don't, don't, I can't bear it!" These words interrupted the minister's low tones, and all eyes were turned from him to Mrs. Piper, who stood, now alone, by the grave, her worn face ghastly white in the fading yellow sunlight. "Don't go on,-I can't bear it no more. Oh, Lord! how can I! My son Jim-my only son-he-heI've been livin' a lie these twenty year -an' makin' him out what he wa'n't; he-he wa'n't killed in battle-how can I?-how can I?-he-he was shot for desertin'." The thin black figure fell upon its knees by the grave, the head bent-forward over the little fluttering flag. There was no sound save the whispering of the wind in the trees, the twittering of birds, the faint noise of insects. The last rays of the setting sun came in under the trees upon the hushed group. In those moments they realized it all-the grief, the pride, the shame, the bitter secret of their neigh bor's life; and the hearts of the people felt for her. A squirrel ran across the neighboring wall, a woodpecker tapped on a tree; the tiny flag spread itself in the breeze and flapped against the black bonnet bent over it. The first human sound was the low voice of the minister repeating half unconsciously, "I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord." A whip-poor-will shrilled from a tree near by. There was a stir among the people; slowly, with hushed breath, they filed out. Some one hit against the drum, the harsh noise making them all start; the whip-poorwill shrilled steadily on; the sun sank below the horizon, and left three figures standing by the deserted grave, -the black figure bowed over the flag, the tall figure of the young minister, and the stooping, sympathetic woman friend. The teams drove quietly away. The friend whispered to the kneeling woman. She looked up, bent forward and pulled the flag from the grave, and, clasping it in her hand, was led slowly out of the yard. The three entered the darkening kitchen. The minister said what few words he could, and went away. Mrs. Bacon made some tea and persuaded her friend to taste it. Then she, too, went away, for Mrs. Piper begged to be left alone. That night there was again a pilgrimage to the little upper room. And thereafter a little silk flag lay tenderly over the faded blue uniform, in the locked bureau drawer. UNCLE SETH. By Helen Marshall North. ALKING down the broad street through the middle town of old Whitefield, or along the roads leading back into the country, you might find almost any of the large or small farmers quite willing to put aside his hoe or spade and lean over the fence for a bit of friendly gossip. I say almost any of these, because the one notable exception was Uncle Seth. He was always too busy with his sowing or haying or reaping to spend good daylight hours in careless conversation. Not that Uncle Seth was unsocial or captious. Far enough from that. No man in all Whitefield had a sunnier temper, a readier wit or a keener interest in the well-being of his fellowtownsmen. At a suitable time, he would gladly refresh body and mind with social converse. But for more than seventy years there had never been a day long enough for the work that he wished to put into it; and now in his old age, when the great farm on the hill, with its rows of barns, its horses and cows, its broad acres of wheat and oats, had passed into a memory with the old man, and in its place stood the small farm with its dozen acres, quite in the heart of the town, with its pretty white cottage and "just one wife," as Uncle Seth put it, he was as busy as ever. Perhaps he was getting his farm work in shape so that he could go to the red school-house, "over East," in the early nightfall, to lead a prayer meeting among the scattered residents of that little suburb. No voice would be more welcome there than his own; for the daily living, the strong, sweet, symmetrical character that had budded and blossomed and ripened under these beautiful Whitefield hills, was an open page that all might read; and on that page none could find a trace of hypocrisy or craftiness, falsehood or disloyalty to home, country or God. Uncle Seth "had his faults," in the phrase of the town-the faults of a quick, warm temper; but that had never tempted him beyond the bounds of self-respect and manliness. Or perhaps Uncle Seth was hastening through his own self-appointed task in order to give a helping hand to young Luther, who was struggling with a big mortgage on his farm and the demands of a large family; or possibly he had in mind to go over to the little brown house under the hill where lived Aunt Lucy, for many years the village dressmaker, and beloved by everyone. Now she, too, was old, but ever bright and cheery in her own little house, and though she had no child to look after her, yet the whole town took her under its wing, and she was well cared for; and Uncle Seth's old arms could wield saw and axe sturdily and heap up the pile of fragrant wood which would keep the little house warm all winter. Or, again, perhaps Uncle Seth had quite other plans in his curly gray head. Up at the top of the long hill lived a little child, not bound to him by ties of blood, but very dear for all that, a little boy who had no grandfather of his own and so delighted in this friendly grandfather to everybody whom fate had thrown in his way. Uncle Seth counted it no loss of time to take the little fellow on a long ramble down by the brook, or in the dark woods, and show him where the fish loved to hide, where the oriole built its nest, where the squirrel kept his winter supplies, and how the hovering crows planned to circumvent the farmers' ambitions in the cornfield; for |