Jasper County Democrat, Volume 5, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 May 1902 — Old Bill's Last Memorial Day. [ARTICLE]

Old Bill's Last Memorial Day.

WIIAT did he give you, Bill?” “A hundred dollars.” “And you’re crying about it! Why, fellows, look here. A man made rich for two minutes’ work, and he's actually snivelling over his good luck!” “You don't understand!” quavered old Bill Hraddock. “Maybe he's thinking of the royal treat he’ll set up for the boys to-ifight—all day to-morrow, too. Bill. It’s a holiday.” Old Bill BraddtK’k's head went lower. Down dropped his hammer all of a sudden. “I’m not feeling very well, boys,” he muttered unsteadily. “I guess I’ll have to go home.” The scene was a building half-erected, the actors several workingmen engaged upon the same. Ten minutes previous every man In the place had looked up in startled dismay, as down the street came tearing a team of horses attached to a carriage. In its seat, wildly shrieking and clinging to the side of the swinging vehicle, was a child of 10, and she looked death in the face. It was a moment calling for promptness, for heroism. Into the breach stepped old Bill Braddock. A leap from a window ten feet up, a spring to the road, and then his horrified fellow workingmen saw two beings In peril instead of one. They shuddered ns, clutching at the necks of the frenzied steeds, old Bill was whipped like a plaything under their feet. Still he held on. Twice, thrice it teemed that he must be shaken loose under the grinding hoofs, but he clung manfully, and, thirty yards from the deep gravel pit in the course, menacing sure destruction, the horses were brought to a atop. When his companion workers came up Bill was limp as a rag. A mist was over bis eyes, for his exertions had not been light. Then he was conscious that a crowd surrounded him. He heard such words as “splendid fellow!” “hero!" and a trembling hand shook his own, while ita owner blessed him for saving his child, and pressed something crisp into the pocket of his leathern work apron. Bill’s arm was wrenched and he had received one or two bad blows from the

carriage pole on the head, nnd ho was confused, but ns a face like that of an angel, nurouted with golden hair, looked Into his own, and a pair of soft, young arms encircled his neck, and a childish roice whispered tearful thanks and a pair of sweet, fresh lips pressed his brou** ed cheek, he seemed to thrill back into a life where' tenderness hnd ruled instead of the reckless riot of late wasted years. He heard some one say that he had MTed the life of the only darling child of •ome prominent general, on his way to lead the memorial exercises of the following morning at Belleview, the next town. Then he was 'led by big friends back to the building. “Sort of dosed by hia shaking up." commented one of theae, as Bill left his work. “He'll be at the corners to-night, though. A liberal fellow of the right sort is old Blli Rraddock, and he'll Just outdo himself with a hundred dollar bill la his pocket. Mark my words."

Y'es, “a liberal fellow” had old Bill Braddock been all his life, and that was why at sixty-eight he was without a home, working harder than ever, and draining the dregs of life. Of “the right sort,” surely, for he had not hesitated to risk his own life to save that of an imperilled human being. Everybody knew old Bill. He had come back from the war with a record. How proudly for ten years had he been a familiar figure about the village, obscuring that record by giving all the credit of this deed and that effort, in battle to his brother! Then his brother died, and his wife followed, and a few years later, the gentle. witching little golden-haired fairy, their child, and then old Bill’s poor, lonely heart broke, and he went to the dogs, as the saying is. “She kissed me!” That was what old Bill Braddock was whispering softly to himself, in the wretched boarding-house room he called home, all the rest of that afternoon. A spell was on the man. While his friends were discussing how he was resting up to put in all that evening and all the ensuing holiday in a “right royal celebration” on the hundred dollars, far different ideas were battling in the mind for so many years dazfed with sorrow and benumbed with drink. That childish kiss had unlocked a door in the past—had let into the lonely soul a whole flock of memories of the days when he was a better man. That handshake of a great general had made Bill thrill as it took him back to the proud hour when, before a whole army, a greater general had publicly commended his heroism iu saving the day for bis country. Well, it was all over now—all except the lonely graves in Belleville cemetery—the little neglected mound where his hero brother lay. Poor old Bill’s soul was struggling from its shell. All his braver, gentler life had come back to him, and he groped in darkness. He regarded the wasted years sadly. He felt like the sin-sick

prodigal—"l will arise and go to my fath-1 or.” But the prodigal had a home in distant view, while poor old Bill had none. And so, through the long afternoon, the thinker struggled. But the klsa kept his heart tender, and the general's handshake made him remember he had once been a man. At dusk he stole from the house, a mighty resolve in his heart; for one twen-ty-four hours, at least, for one soletnn Memorial I)ny, no liquor should pass his lips—be would commune with bis better self 1 He looked like a new man, arrayed in the neat undress uniform of the Urand Army, and he carried a wrentli of flowers under his arm at he struck out from town, two hours later. His companions found no boon fellow awaiting them that night. Bill was traversing the road to Belleview—alone with hla soul and God. The freshness of flowers, of aoft

zephyrs, of happy insect life was all about him. A holy heaven full of stars twinkled peace into his starving heart. And he marched forward with new thoughts and grand thoughts, as he had once marched at Gettysburg, at Ghaneellorsville, at Manasses Gap. Forward, march!—he had been a good soldier then. Forward, march! some stirring voice seemed to tell him he was a braver man to-night, tramp, tramp, tramping it away from teekless companions. Into an atmosphere of pure and holy thoughts. “Oh, papa! what a beautiful wreath on this little grave!” “And someone lying beside it!” Early in the morning the general and his daughter had come to the cemetery, to find the first wreath placed orj the grave of old Bill Braddock’s brother. “It is a man—how still he lies. Papa, is he —dead?” The old general turned the prostrate form. The child uttered a sharp, halffrightened cry. “It is the man—oh, papa!” she choked up—“it is the man who saved my life!” The general lifted his hat in reverence, hts daughter clung to his side with eyes brimming with tears. They could not help but read the story true, for they had taken pains to learn much of the veteran since the night before. “He is dead,” spoke the general softly, “but—oh, what a happy face!” God’s sweet morning dew was across it, the smile of God’s benison of forgiveness and peace seemed to illuminate it. The spirit of old Bill Braddock that had walked with the angels through the silent night, had gone humbly, pleadingly, repentantly into the presence of the great Captain, just as the solemn bells were ringing in a new Memorial Day.