Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 May 1891 — MET AT THE GRAVE. [ARTICLE]

MET AT THE GRAVE.

A. Decoration Day Episode with a Pleasant Endin*. When the tall, military-looking stranger moved into the modest dwelling next to the widow Clark’s that excellent lady, in common with the rest of the neighbors, experienced some little curiosity. In truth the newcomer was a handsome fellow — handsome enough for any widow to enjoy gazing ht. Though his mustache and imperial were snow white, his form, six good feet in height, was •root and vigorous, and he walked with a stride that if it did not show the elasticity of youth at least betokened a liberal supply of vitality. The widow Clark got to peeping through her blinds at her neighbor as he walked past and then to wondering when she should make his acquaintance. But Captain Mageddon (for that it seemed was his name) did not display any anxiety to make acquaintances. He lived all alone in his little house and seldom went out. A colored boy made his bed and did his cooking. He was scrupulous courteous and polite to the inhabitants of the little eountry town. He exchanged greetings with the postmaster every day in the cheeriest manner possible. He was quite a favorite at the resort known as “the store, ” whither he went every day to order his supplies, and where he’was wont at times to regale the assortment of prominent citizens there assembled with a story or two. Now, though the widow Majorie Clark was firty-two good summers pid (though she might have prevaricated if questioned on that subject before a judge and jury), and though there were streaks of silver here and there in the locks that had once borne the hue of the raven's wing, she was a decidedly wholsome creature to look upon. She had round, plump, whi\e a-ms, as any one could see who watched her kneading through the dough on baking day. She had, moreover, smooth fresh cheeks, with the tinge of ripe snow app e! in them. She had Lot an unsound tooth in her head, and her laugh was like the ripple oftt thin stream of water over pebbles. She wore neat black gowns with I fleecy lace ruffles at the wrists, and throat. Many were the swains who had sighed at the feet of the comely widow for the last ten years, but the trumber who had gone away sorrowing matched precisely the number Of those who had sighed. Mrs. Mar* tone Clark she remained, and seemed to be perfectly happy so. Perhaps it was a memory of her vanished girlhood that caused the widow to feel a trifle piqued at the Captain’s obvious indifference. Other tenants of that house had—but why call up harrowing recollections? And b§re was the captain, a next door neighbor for six months, and he had never even called on her. True, he bowed with a grave courtesy whenever they met, and often exchanged verbal salutations with her respecting the condition of the weather and 60 on. But it was all done with a cold politeness that harmonized very ill with the widow’s neighborly feelings. If anyone had told her she bad fallen genuinely in love with that Boldieriy figure and earnest, manly face, she would have been vastly indignant. She grew more and more exasperated at the captain’s unsociability nevertheless. But there came a day when this kindly interest (to call it by no warmer name) was changed into something closely resembling dislike, and a very stormy interview took the place of any pleasanter one for which the lady may have wished. Deep down in her heart Mrs. Clark cherished a passionate regard for a lot of fat hens that she kept fenced in her trim backyard. One morning the captain’s big retriever, a shaggy brute with a matted coat and no conscience, burst through the fence, put three of the fattest hens to death and so eternal-1 Iv scarified the others that they could i do nothing but lie down and gasp for air. The widow caught the brute in the act She forgot he “was Captain Mageddon s dog—forgot everything except the wanton slaughter he had wreaked. She grabbed him pluckily by the collar, armed herself With a broom handle and in two minutes the! dog, having been dragged •nto the widow’s front porch, was being belabored with a lustiness that caused him to fill the air with his howls. f In about ten seconds Capt. Mageddon descended his front steps and walked across the lot that separated the two houses. “Madam,” he said rather brusquely, why on earth are you beating my dog?” ( Because,” retorted the widow, angry for being caught in so ridiculous * situation, “he killed my hens!" Because —take that, you brute!” with a final thump as the dog flew between his master s legs and crouched there, trembling, “ “1 am soiry, madam," responded the old soldier gravely, “that he killed your hens, and I will pay vou for them, gladly. He deserved the beating, and I hope you’ll excuse my testiness, but you see that dog and my colored boy, Tom, are about the only friends I have in the world, and I don’t like to see either of them hurt. ’ Pay for her hens! As if she wanted his money, indeed! The widow was thoroughly angry. “It’s not the value of the hens I care about,” she snapped. “I don't like to see their heads eaten off by a great, roaring cannibal.” The captain could not help smiling a little, which exasperated her the more. “And Til make bold to tell you, Capt. Maged-

don,” she added, “that it shows » poor spirit for a man to claim he haj only a dog and a nigger for friends, when he might have -—” Here the widow Marjorie felt her self giving way. With a last wrathful look she darted within her dooi and slammed it. After that, when she passed th< captain she looked across the stree' and pretended not to see him. Th* captain continued to salute her gravely, as before. In this way things went on for a month or so. n

There was a certain annual ceremony that the widow Clark nevei neglected. In the little cemetery, eight miles away, lay her two boys —twins, of seventeen, they wer< when they left her on that bright morning, oh! so long ago. She never saw them alive again, and they rest ed there now, under (he soft grass. The husband and father who had brought them home lay there also, now, and when Memorial day—thai most sacred, perhaps, of all American days—came around, the widow laid her blossoms and wreaths on the three mounds. Every year, as the day came around, she hitched up the chunky old mare tc the creaky buggy and drove down the tree-lined road to the place when the dear ones slept. This year she was a little late. The sun had gone down behind the hills when she drove down the smooth gravel road. The turf looked fresh and inviting She strewed her flowers on the mounds—precious task —and sa‘ there for an hour, thinking of those who had rested there so long and sc silently. She felt no grief now; tcalm gladness, rather, that she should be able to care for their sleeping place so well. A feeling of loneliness came over her as she rose to go. The dusk was gathering over the deserted city Oi the dead. Slowly the old horse toiled up the incline. Suddenly the reins were tightened. The woman whe was driving gave a little gasp ol astonishment. She peered through the shrubbery. The stalwart mar sitting upon a moss covered stone with his white head bowed upon his hands was—Capt. Mageddon. The old mare stopped. She stood stock still for five minutes. The man never moved. The dusk grew deepei and the. moon peeped out. Moved by an impulse she could never afterwards explain, Mrs. Clark slowly descended from the buggy. She moved noiselessly over the grass. She approached the stooping figure. “Excuse me, Capt Mageddon/’ she said, softly, “bul will you not let me give yoa a ride home?”

He had risen at the sound of hei voice. “This -is indeed a pleasan surprise, Mrs. Clark,” he said. The traces of tears upon the stern, strong face sent a pang to the good woman's heart. “Captain," sh asked, softly, “are there dear ones ol yours here, too?” “My boy lies there,” answered the old warior, pointing to a slim marble slab. “He was too young to face that hell of war. But he rode by my side like a hero in that last mad charge at Gettysburg, his young face aglow and his fair hair streaming ir the breeze . I can hear his splendid cry of triumph that he gave as the ball struck him; ringing through my ears now: ‘Strike.home, father!’ he yelled, as he rolled from his saddle, and I saw him no more until afterwards. Poor Ned I It killed his mother. I came to your town to be near him, Mrs. Clark. You must excuse an old fellow’s weakness.” And .the veteran covered his face once more.

“Captain,” said the lady, with almost motherly tenderness. “There are two of my darlings sleeping over there—boys of mine who died foi their flag as yours did. Their fathei sleeps with them now. You and I must not grieve for our dead. Tney are perhaps happier than we.” They drove slowly home together in the moonlight, a man and woman both mature in years, who had seen life in all its various phases—love, joy, grief, passion, all the emotions that carry a soul from the cradle tc the inevitable end of all. Who shall say that the peace that came with the sunset of their days was not de served? Harold R. Vynne.