AS Osric and Elsie stood looking and wondering at the unusual
spectacle, they were joined by two or three of the other children—by
Anna Lee and her sister Hetty, by David Parsons and his cousin
Christopher or Christie, a delicate little fellow about nine years old.
"I wonder if old General Dent is dead?" said Elsie.
"I know he isn't, for I saw him riding with Miss Rebecca last night.
They went by our house," said Anna, with considerable satisfaction,
"and the general bowed to me."
"That's nothing; General Dent bows to everybody," said Hetty, who
always liked, as she said, "to take people down. He bowed to Mrs. Cooke
the other day."
"Why shouldn't he bow to Mrs. Cooke?" returned Anna, with spirit. "I am
sure there is not a nicer woman in the world than Kissy Cooke. I only
wish I was half as good!"
Hetty had nothing to reply to that, but she laid it up in her mind,
determined to "pay" Anna for it later in the day.
"I didn't know the Dents had any relations round here," said David. "It
looks kind of strange to see that dark door open, don't it? I think it
looks as if it was waiting for somebody."
"I suppose it is," replied Elsie. "It didn't open itself."
"There is Jeduthun Cooke sitting in the mill door," said Osric. "Let us
go and ask him. He will be sure to tell us all about it."
The children ran down the descent leading to the grist-mill, where
Jeduthun Cooke was sitting in the door playing on the harmonica.
He was always making music of some kind—singing or whistling, or
playing on the fife or bugle, or on the harmonica, as at present. Old
Mrs. Badger, up at the tavern, said she wondered Mr. Antis would have
such a noise, but the "boss" only laughed, and said the stones would
not know how to run without Jeduthun's music. Jeduthun Cooke was a
light-coloured quadroon who had worked steadily in Mr. Worthington's
mill for the last sixteen years, except for the three years that he was
in the army as bugler to a cavalry regiment. He was a tall man, and as
thin, wiry, and agile as a panther, and there was a sparkle in his eye
which looked as if he might have a fiery temper. Nevertheless, he had
never been seen furiously angry but twice. Once was at the Badger boys,
whom he found tying a bunch of crackers to the tail of the old dog at
the mill. Jeduthun thrashed them both soundly, and threatened them with
a ducking, to boot. The boys went to complain to their grandmother—an
unwise proceeding on their part, for the old lady not only gave them a
second edition of the thrashing, but sent them to bed at five o'clock
on the Fourth of July. There were both dishonour and loss in that, and
the boys never forgot the lesson.
The other time Jeduthun flew into a passion, there was also a child
concerned, but this time the child was the victim. An Englishman had
come to work in the saw-mill, and had brought with him a little orphan
nephew. There was a strong conviction among the people at Boonville
that this lad was abused; but nothing was done about the matter till
one morning, when Jeduthun, going down to the mill earlier than
usual, heard the poor child screaming and begging for mercy. Jeduthun
jumped over the gate and ran round the house to the back door. There
was poor little Eben tied to a post, while his uncle was beating him
unmercifully. Nobody knew exactly what happened, but when Mr. Antis,
wakened by the cries of the child and screams of murder from the woman,
appeared on the scene, he found Jeduthun engaged in ducking Tom Collins
in the mill-dam, and with some trouble prevailed on him to let the man
come out of the water before he was quite drowned. Tom Collins brought
an action for assault, and Jeduthun was fined seventy-five cents, which
he cheerfully paid, remarking that he thought he had got the worth of
his money. Eben was taken away from his cruel relation and placed with
a farmer in the neighbourhood, and Tom Collins found it expedient to
move away from Boonville.
These two instances of temper did not make Jeduthun at all less
popular in the little community. He was a special favourite with the
children, for whom he told stories, sung songs, and made kites, tops,
and water-wheels; and then he sometimes lectured as well, and he liked
nothing better than to have a dozen of the school-children round the
mill door all chattering at once. He kept excellent order among his
little friends, never permitting any teasing, meddling, or other bad
manners, and Miss Hilliard, the school-mistress, used to say that
Jeduthun was really a great help to her.
Jeduthun was sitting in the mill door playing a very sad and solemn
tune on his harmonica, or mouth-organ, as it is sometimes called, and
the children waited till he finished it, for they knew he did not like
to be interrupted.
"That sounds like a funeral tune!" said Anna Lee.
"'Tis," said Jeduthun.
"They sung it at Mary Jane Hill's funeral over at the Springs,"
remarked Elsie. "It goes to the words, 'When blooming youth is snatched
away.'"
"That's it, exactly," returned Jeduthun, and he sung the first verse of
the hymn in such a soft, pure voice, and with such a tender solemnity,
that it brought tears to the children's eyes as they listened, as well
as to those of Mr. Antis,—albeit "unused to the melting mood,"—who was
busy in his office.
"They'll be singing that over at the Springs to-day," remarked Jeduthun
when he had finished the verse. "Miss Lilla Parmalee is going to be
buried to-day."
"Oh, poor thing! Is she dead?" exclaimed Anna Lee.
"She's dead, sure enough, but you needn't call her 'poor thing' any
more, Anna. She has got a long way beyond that by this time," said
Jeduthun. "Yes, Miss Lilla has been in heaven two days already. They
are going to bring her over here, and put her in old General Dent's
vault. The Parmalees are kind of connections of the Dents, somehow.
Kissy, she knows all about it. The boss was there yesterday, and last
night, the general and his sister drove over. The funeral is to be at
half-past one o'clock, and they'll get here about three, I expect."
"There's somebody mowing the grass before the door of the vault,"
remarked Osric, looking across the river.
"Yes, the general's man came down to open the door and make everything
nice. Kissy, she went over yesterday to see if she could do anything.
She used to work at Mr. Parmalee's before she was married. She was
saying last night that she was the first one to lay Miss Lilla in her
new cradle, and yesterday she helped to lay her in the coffin."
"I suppose they will have a splendid coffin?" said Mehetabel Lee.
"Oh yes. Mr. Parmalee won't spare expense, you may be sure. It's a kind
of comfort to him, I expect, though it don't do her any good. They have
got a coffin covered with white, with silver nails-and handles, and a
great silver cross on the breast, with Miss Lilla's name, and a text of
Scripture, and heaps of lovely white flowers of all kinds."
"Miss Lilla always liked white," remarked Elsie. "I hardly ever saw her
wear anything else in summer, and even in quite cold weather. Don't you
remember, Anna, when we were little girls, our wishing we could have
such white frocks as Miss Lilla's? Kissy was doing them up, and she
showed them to us."
"She had better white robes than any that money could buy," said
Jeduthun, solemnly. "She had washed her robes and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb, as Scripture says, and now she is a-wearing of
them before his throne. You get such robes as those, my dears, and then
you won't fear to die any more than she did."
"It must have been rather sudden at last," remarked Hetty, after a
little silence. "I saw her riding out in the carriage last week, when I
was over at the Springs. Let's see! why, that was only last Friday."
"Yes, she rode out the morning of the day she died, but her death
wasn't sudden more than any death is sudden," replied Jeduthun. "They
have been expecting it any time for the last year. In fact, Miss Lilla
has never been well like other people since she was born. I never
thought she would live as long as she has done."
"Such good people always seem to me to die young," said Anna.
"Well, I don't know," said David. "Look at grandmother! She is 'most a
hundred, and I am sure she is as good as she can be."
"That she is!" said Jeduthun. "She is a splendid old Christian. She
told me she had been a church-member for seventy-five years. Well,
young or old don't matter so much, if we are only ready, and we are
all of us old enough to make ready. Remember that, children. You can't
tell when your time will come, but if you are only ready, it will be
all right, whether you are as young as you be now, or as old as Madam
Brown."
"We can't tell when our call will come, either," said Elsie.
"No, and so the only safe way is to get ready now, because, you see,
to-day is your own, and to-morrow isn't;" and Jeduthun began to
sing again, this time, the beautiful tune which goes by the name of
Windham—"Life is the time to serve the Lord!"
The children listened respectfully, and Elsie and Anna with real
interest, to Jeduthun's little sermon, and even Hetty resolved that
she would not "pay" Anna for getting the best of their little dispute.
After all, Anna might die—she was often ailing—and then Hetty would be
sorry that she had teased her. Osric, however, had no taste for such
grave talk, and he slipped away and went up to the school-house, where
he found all the children assembled, and all talking together about
Miss Lilla's funeral.
"The coffin covered with white velvet, all nailed on with silver nails,
and a real silver cross on the top," one of the girls was saying as he
came up.
"Oh, Mary, not real silver!" said another.
"Real silver! My aunt said so," persisted Mary. "And they are to have
eight young ladies for pall-bearers, all dressed in white, with long
white veils and beautiful bunches and wreaths of flowers, and eight
young gentlemen with scarfs of white silk and white rosettes. They
sent to Hobartown for everything: flowers and coffin, and hearse and
carriages. Of course there wasn't anything at the Springs good enough
for the Parmalees," added Mary, imitating with considerable success the
tone in which she had heard her mother say these words.
"I wonder they didn't send to the city and have done with it," remarked
Osric.
"They have everything just as nice in Hobartown as they do in the
city," said Mary. "Of course they would, because so many rich people
live there. Anyhow, it shows that Miss Lilla's friends haven't any very
deep feelings for her, or they wouldn't be thinking of making such a
fuss. And such mourning! Oh my! Dresses covered with crape, veils down
to the ground, and all."
"I wish we could go to see the funeral," said little Christopher. "I
suppose Miss Hilliard wouldn't let us out?"
"Not she! She never will let any one have any fun that she can help,"
said Osric. "I think it is too bad."
"I don't call a funeral very great fun," said Alice Brown, rather
indignantly. "I guess thee wouldn't think so, if it was thy sister that
was to be buried instead of Miss Lilla."
"Rich folks don't have feelings like poor folks," said Mary, tossing
her head. "They just like to make a show, that's all. I can't bear such
people. They are always just as disagreeable as they can be."
"I am sure Miss Lilla was not disagreeable," remarked Elsie, who had
come up in time to hear Mary's words. "She was just as lovely as
she could be to everybody. Jeduthun Cooke says she used to have her
Sunday-school class come to her room to recite for ever so long after
she left off going to church, till she grew so weak, she could not bear
it any longer. And I know how good she was to Mary Jane Hill all the
time she was sick. She used to go and read to her by the hour, and she
was always sending her nice things to eat, and taking her out riding
in the carriage whenever she was able to go. Mrs. Hill told sister she
should never forget what Miss Lilla had done for Mary Jane, and Mary
Jane herself told sister that Miss Lilla had made death easy to her,"
added Elsie, in a low, reverent voice. "She said Miss Lilla first led
her to see the Lord as her Saviour."
"But, now, Elsie, do you think it is quite right to spend so much money
on a funeral?" asked Anna. "Hundreds of dollars for a coffin, just to
be buried in the ground? What good will all that do Miss Lilla?"
"It won't do her any good, of course," replied Elsie, "but, I suppose,
the friends find comfort in it. I know when our baby died, sister Avice
sent and bought the muslin for a beautiful white frock, and sat up all
night to make it. She let me buy the white ribbon for it, with my own
money that aunt gave me, and it was a comfort," said Elsie, wiping away
the tears that overflowed at the remembrance of the little baby-sister.
"But such a lot of money," said Anna. "Now, do you think it is right,
Alice Brown?"
"I shouldn't feel free to do it," said Alice, who had been brought up
among "Friends." "It is not our way, but thee knows, Anna, that we are
not to judge one another. People see things in different lights. I
don't doubt John Parmalee thinks it right, or he wouldn't do it, for he
is a good man."
"I know what I would do with the money," said Elsie. "I would build a
chapel or a school-house, and somewhere about it, I would put up Miss
Lilla's name, so it should be a kind of monument to her."
"What a girl you are, Elsie!" said Hetty. "I don't believe anybody else
would have thought of such a thing."
"Oh yes, it has been often done," returned Alice Brown. "I have seen a
beautiful church which was built in that way. A gentleman had two twin
babies to whom somebody left a great fortune, and when the babies died,
he took the money which had belonged to them, and built this church."
"I think that was lovely," exclaimed Elsie. "Do you know any more such
stories, Alice?"
"Yes, but I haven't time to tell them now, for there comes Miss
Hilliard."
"I wonder if she wouldn't let out school early this afternoon, if we
were to ask her?" said Osric.
"Thee can try, but I don't believe she will. Thee knows, Osric, she
never does dismiss school in any such way without asking the trustees,
and we had an extra holiday only last week."
"I mean to ask her, anyhow;" said Osric, who did not like to give up
any chance of a show, even though it were a funeral.
As Alice Brown had predicted, Miss Hilliard decidedly refused to
dismiss the school. She didn't wish the children to miss their lessons
and be unsettled by another holiday, and, moreover, she thought it
would be disagreeable to the mourning family to have them crowding
round and staring. She said "No" so decidedly that Osric did not
venture to ask her again, but nevertheless, he did not give up the idea
of seeing the funeral.
Miss Hilliard knew Miss Lila Parmalee very well, and after she had
opened the school with reading the story of the raising of Lazarus,
she told the children something about the dead young lady: how she had
always loved her Saviour ever since she was a little child, and how
desirous she had always been to use the little strength she had to his
glory, and for the good of those for whom he had died; how kind and
thoughtful she had been to those around her, never saying anything
wilfully to hurt any one's feelings, and never missing the chance of
doing a kind action; how she had taught in the Sunday-school as long
as she could go to church, and afterwards had the children meet at her
room as long as she was able to talk with them. Miss Hilliard had to
stop two or three times to wipe away her tears as she was speaking, for
she loved Miss Lilla dearly.
"Some people say that rich people are always proud," remarked Elsie,
"but I am sure Miss Lilla was not, though I suppose she was very rich."
"There is a good deal of covetousness and envy at the bottom of
such remarks, I fear," replied Miss Hilliard. "There is no meaner
satisfaction than that which people take in disparaging and slandering
those who are better off than themselves."
"I never heard that any of these very people objected to making money
themselves for fear it would make them disliked," said David.
Miss Hilliard smiled.
"No, we are all ready enough to run that risk. People are neither
wicked because they are rich nor good because they are poor. There
are temptations in both states of life. Rich people, when they are so
disposed, have it in their power to do a great deal of good, but we all
have opportunities enough in that way if we are only willing to use
them. We will now begin our lessons."
Osric had paid very little attention to what Miss Hilliard said. He
sat up straight and behaved well outwardly, but all the time, and all
through the reading and prayer, he was thinking how he could manage to
slip away and go to see the funeral. He did not care anything about
Miss Lilla's goodness or the sorrow of her parents at losing her, but
he wanted very much to see the fine white silver coffin, and the young
ladies dressed in white, and all the parade. He wanted, too, to see the
inside of the vault, and find out whether it was all lined and paved
with white marble, as the children said. He thought about the matter
all the morning, and listened to all the talk during recess, when every
newcomer had some new story to tell, and the more he heard and thought,
the more he wanted to go, and the more determined he was that he would
go. For, lazy as he was about a great many things, Osric could be
persevering and industrious as anybody, when any scheme of amusement
was concerned.
As he was eating his dinner at noon, sitting under a tree in the edge
of the woods, little Christopher Parsons came up to him. Christopher,
or Christy, as he was usually called, was a slender little fellow about
nine years old, a pretty good boy, but too easily led away for his
own good. He could never bear to say "No!" And so it happened that he
often got into scrapes and did wrong things because people asked him
to do so. David Parsons; who was himself a good boy and fond of his
little cousin, used to say that Christy was certainly to be known by
the company he kept, for when he was with good boys he was a good boy
himself, and when he was with bad boys, he was ready to be as bad as
any of them.
"Don't you wish we could go and see the funeral, Ozzy?" he asked as he
threw himself down on the grass at Osric's side.
"Yes, indeed! I think that Miss Hilliard is real mean," returned Osric.
"She is a regular old maid, and I hate old maids, anyway. They are
always just as mean and spiteful as they can be."
Now, Miss Hilliard could hardly be called an old maid, since she was
only twenty-four, and was, besides, engaged to be married. In reality,
Christopher loved her dearly, as he had good reason to do, but he did
not like to say so, for fear Osric should laugh at him.
"I think she might let us go, anyhow," said he.
"I mean to go," said Osric, after looking round to see that nobody was
near to listen to him, "I mean to go in spite of her, and so can you,
if you like."
"You don't mean to run away from school, do you?" asked Christopher.
Osric nodded his head and screwed up his mouth.
"I know what I am going to do," said he. "I would tell you, only I am
afraid you would run and tell David."
"I wouldn't, neither," returned Christopher, indignantly. "I don't tell
David everything. Do tell me, Ozzy."
"I won't, unless you will promise to go with me."
Christy hesitated. He did very much want to see the grand funeral, but
he did not quite like the idea of running away from school. Only that
morning while listening to Miss Hilliard's remarks, he had resolved
that he would always be a good boy, and try to do good like Miss Lilla.
Running away from school would not be a very promising beginning, but
then Osric wanted him to go, and perhaps would laugh at him, if he
refused, and call him a baby.
"But how will you manage it?" he asked, at last. The question showed
that he was not resisting firmly; but playing with the temptation.
"What's the use of telling you?" returned Osric. "You won't dare to go
with me, and you will run and tell of me directly, I know you will.
If you would help me, I would manage it nicely, and if I thought you
would," continued Osric, "I would try it."
"You can tell me how you mean to manage, anyway," said Christopher. "I
promise you, as true as I live and breathe, I won't tell, even if I
don't go myself."
"Well, I'll tell you. You know it is our week to go after water, and
Miss Hilliard always sends us for a fresh pailful a little before the
girls' recess. Well, we can take the pail and go to the well and leave
it. Then we can go up to the vault, and if nobody is there, and the
door is open, we can slip inside and wait till the people come. If the
door isn't open, or if somebody is watching, we can hide among the
trees till the funeral comes, and then we can see all the people and
get back before the end of the boys' recess."
"But what will Miss Hilliard say, if we stay so long?" asked
Christopher.
"We will tell her that the pump was out of order, and old Peter
wouldn't let us have any water at his well—you know he never will let
anybody come to his well—and that we had to go up to the tavern for
water."
"But that will be a lie," said Christopher, rather startled.
"Fiddlestick's-end!" retorted Osric. "If you are such a spooney as
that, Chris, I don't want anything to do with you. Suppose it is a
little stretch, what then? All the boys tell them, and the girls too,
worse than the boys."
"Oh, Ozzy, not all! I don't believe your sister would tell a lie for
the world!"
"Won't she, then? If you had heard her this morning! If she didn't tell
a fib, she acted it, and that is worse. Besides, this can't be a lie.
You will see the pump will be out of order when the time comes."
"But, Ozzy—" said Christopher, still hesitating. He did not know
exactly what he meant to say. The more he thought about it, the more he
wanted to go, and the more he listened to the temptation; the fainter
became the whispers of his conscience. Osric saw his advantage, and
pursued it.
"You need not go, if you don't want to, Christopher," said he, turning
away. "I did think you thought everything of me, but I see you don't
care anything about me. If you did, you would do what I want you to,
but I know one thing,—I never will ask you to do anything for me again.
I thought you would like to see the funeral, or I wouldn't have asked
you. Now I suppose you will go and tell Miss Hilliard, and get me a
whipping. I never thought you would use me so. Come, Christy," he
added, changing his tone to a coaxing one, "I know you will do this for
me. I never will forget it, and I will do as much and more for you."
There is no use in following the conversation farther. Osric gained
his point, and Christopher promised to go with him to the funeral.
It would not have been easy to tell exactly why he was so anxious to
lead Christopher away with him, only people who do wrong are usually
desirous to have others do wrong likewise. It makes them feel, somehow,
a little less wicked. They think it forms some excuse for themselves to
say that they are no worse than others.
Presently the bell rung.
"You go in, Christy," said Osric as they came near the school-house,
and saw that every one had gone in but themselves. "I'm going to have a
drink first."