The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 7, 1904, Page 14

14 THE SAN ~FRANCISCO SUNDAY ~CALL CUNGLE ZOIHTER.” ght by S. S. McCiure Co, than Uncle Tommy, and he had become 2 querulous and quavery, so that Jona- NLE TOMMY DOWELL and s < 1 A than and his thrifty wife groaned e Jowell were tw under the responsibility of looking aft- ! and patriotism. In = o - ; eloe ”‘]('\ " 'yaS ar- shows hew two brother A e been boys together, men to- Tommy was short and g g i N and soldiers together, may drift L4 1 bald of head, with a remin- % i apart. For years Uncle Tommy and scent twinkle in his blue eyes and a ., : i . . Uncle Luther had not met, except at tain sprigh ss in his step that prightlincss in his step that . erings of old solaiers, and thes e belied his age. Also, he had two iz E E e were not pleasant meeting For the ®zood, stout, stubby legs, although they 4., yiyje towns, albeit they lay out on 3 owed i stiff, = t be 3 & B Jound and o ff, 0 that be .. \ide Minnesota prairie, with only humped smartly with his heels when ., ;... inary Jine between them, could alked o not agree. It was the kind of dissen- What Uncle Tommy lacked of reach- e = sion that grows rank and strong in lit- ng nature’s standard of a man, Uncle 2 s 2 th communi where the are few Luther made up He was gaunt and 5 - outside interests to occupy the inter- stooping, and so spare that one almost s vals of attention. And the old soldiers expected to hear him rattle in his old o, .2 S e took it up, and fought it out as valiant- blue clothes like withered peas in a D g e 2 s Iy as they had marched on Vicksburg. Fine trouble lines mapped his They might have had a Grand Army f and his beard- was thin and 4 5 a d ost, with rem scent camp fires, an g When he walked he lurched at F they might have had urth of July ery step and bore heavily on his s . 3 a fo had left his good right leg CelePrations and Memorial day pa- S rades; but as certainly as Uncle Tom- the b s of Chickamauga, v thirty vears he had MY led the hosts of West Alden in one peinfully about on @ wooden direction, Amery and Captain Enoch Bradiey could be depended upon to ncfe Tommy was bluff and prosper- Inarch in exactly the opposite direction. sus 1 306 Sivid b s cembatabi S for Uncle Lutt he always fol- West Alden, and when all of his Uncle Tommy's procession wher- hildren came home for Thanksgiving ever it might lead. Again and again dinner Uncle Tommy's wife put all the 1 old soldiers of the two towns met uves in the dining table and the interests of harmony. Uncle car o turkeys mmy would come to preside, and 1 L had a little one st Uncle Luther would second the motions, county line in the ad- and then all would slump off into the 3 wn of Amery, where he sol- Quagmire of dissension. At such times dered pans and ered clocks. It the fires of a stirring past would blaze was T the lane, in the farther cor- up in Uncle Luther's faded eyes, his ne s son Jonathan's land, and he stooped shoulders would stiffen back, made up his own bed and cooked his a faint flush would steal into his meals in He the little room in the rear. seemed at least twenty years older cheeks, and he would nod his old gray bhead as & in time to martial musie " ONCLE ZUIHER SZERPI WHOILY TNCOKSCIOUS.” UNCER EUTHER-DOWELL'S WODDEN that none but he could hear. Some- times the tears came up to his eyes, and the boy who was fortunate enough to hear him talk thrilled with the quick pride of strife and longed to shoulder a carbine and march away to the mu- sic of fife and drum. For two the towns had held Memorial services, but they had been mournfully dispirited. Uncle by *sheer force of character, day Tommy, had been marshal of the day, and Uncle Luther and a few stragglers from Amery had marched with the parade; but Captain Enoch and his supporters stood by with gloomy for- bearance and offered no word of en- couragement. There was really little need of Memorial day services, except in the abstract. The vemetery, where the discord of the two towns was a bare prairie knoll, set e rows of spindling languished half the thirst and whipping st—and it contained no buried. lay on around with prec woods tha cotto ummer with ds and d soldier But Uncle Tommy's parades marched up the road to the cemetery gate and back again, and Uncle Luther feit that the country’s dead, wherever they might lie, had been honore On the third year the old soldiers met thoroughly determined’ to be In ten minutes’ time thumping on the his cane, and several r old soldiers were clinging to Enoch’s coat-tails, while the two men glared and threatened. And harmonious. Tommy was e with tain then Captain Enoch executed a well- pla d fla movement, routed Uncle ommy and ran up the Amery colors. A few minutes later his faction, acting with the right of might, had decided upon all the important features of the ade. And to further rout Uncle ommy and his retainers, they ap- pointed Uncle Luther to the honored position of marshal of the day. At first Uncle Luther was dumb with tonishmen He had as good right to be m They ment, shal as Uncle Tommy. had belonged to the same regi- and both had reached the rank of corporal. Uncle Luther on one leg and Uncle Tommy on two. But Uncle Luther always had deferred to Uncle Tommn s if he had been an older and it seemed to him hardly short =acrifice to appear as Uncle Tomm rival. So he struggled to his feet, and held up a lean finger to catch Captain Enoch’s eye. “I rather have Tommy have the place,” faltered; “he’s better fitted for it than I be.” But Uncle Tommy down the room. “Keep it!” roared, andshe went out, slamming the door after him. Uncle Luther followed him a few steps, wistfully, and then he dropped back into his seat, and listened dumbly brother, of was storming while Ca ch and the exultant revolters planned the details of the s Amery’s turn this year,” gloated Captain Enoch. Uncle Lu walked up the road alone. His s was brisker than usual, and there was a brighter gleam in his H could not help feeling proud had been honored. There were other men in Amery who would have served better im his place—he knew that well enough, for he was old, and he didn’t walk easily—but he was glad with joy of appreciation. For so ars he had been an unnoticed, 1 tinker, and when at last r ognition came to him, even at the ex- pense of his more fortunate brother, he could not help exulting. “Well, 1 fought fer it,” he mumbled; “an’ 1 bled fer it. 1'd a-given both my legs, if ne i they Kknow that.” Then, after a pause, he said aloud, “But I wisht Tommy'd got it.” He opened the door of his little shop and went in. His eyes swept the fa- miliar disorder of the room, the rusty tools hanging the wall, the blear- faced old clocks, the pots and pans, all the toys of a second childhood. He was glad to be at home again, for he was worn out with the unwonted excitement of the meeting. Outside the sun shone on the green prairies, and there was warm, puddly dust in the road; but Uncle Luther’s blood was thin and cold, and he shivered in the damp in- terior of the shop. So he brought his soldering brazier from the corner and stirred the coals into a bright glow. Then he bent over to warm his hands. Jonathan Dowell came down the lane between his prosperous fields on his way to town. Little Dick was with him. When Uncle Luther saw them he went to the door and beckoned. “Come in, Jonathan! Come in!” he called. His face shone with pride and he told with feverish eagerness of the new honor which the day had brought him. “Nonsense,” interrupted Jonathan testily. “Don’t you know, father. that you're gettin’ too old and feeble to take part in such things? You ain't able to walk to the graveyard an’ back, an’ you're only stirrin’ up trouble between the families. Uncle Tommy’'ll never forgive you.” “I know i he faltered; “I know it, Jonathan. Tommy’d ought to have it. 1 told ’em so. I said Tommy’d ought to have it The end of the lane was the end of Dick's little world, and he turned and loitered back, humming a tune to him- self, as a child will. Uncle Luther stood in the doorway and watched him wistfully. Of a sudden he recalled how Uncle Tommy had looked when they were boys together. “Jus like Tommy, exactly.” he said. half aloud, gazing fondly at the little fellow. Then he bent over him stiffly and beckoned. “Come see gran’pa,” he said, smiling enticingly. Dick crossed his hands behind his back and looked at Uncle Luther so- berly. He was a sunny haired little fellow, with blue syes and puckery red lips, and he stood full in the bright May sunshine. Uncle Luther regarded him seriously. “I told 'em I didn’t want to march.” .he said, protestingly. “I said Tommy'd do it better'n I could. But Captain Enoch, ner any of 'em, would listen to me. don't go way, an’ leave gral\ pa.” -beseechingly. But the little boy was edging awas he didn't und‘rs(and and he was afraid. “Don't go 'way,” said Uncle Luther. eagerly; “come an’ see what gran’pa’s got for Dicky."” He turned and hobbled painfully across his shop. He put on his spec- tacles and opened a drawer in his workbench, and in its depths he found a stick of horehound candy. Dick stood Wwith one pudgy hand resting on the door frame, peering into the shop with wide eyes. . nd expressively. Dick drew a from the candy wrinkled face. announced .Uncle Luther, little nearer, glancing to his grandfather’'s Uncle Luther waved the stick like a wizard's wand, and lured Dick nearer and nearer until a dirty little hand closed over the candy. Then he reached out slowly and cau- tiously and gathered Dick in his arms. “Ain't you goin’ to kiss gran'pa?” ha asked eagerly. But the little boy wriggled away, and ran out of the door. Uncle Luther Wwatched him loitering up the lane in the AL LE // ’”’T sunshine, sucking his candy, until the vision blurred in his dim old eyes. Then he returned to his brazier. He at down, and drew his chair almost over it. He bent double, with his elbows on his knees and his head resting on his hands, and there he sat alone for a long time. Finally he straightened up. The subtle warmth of the fire had stolen through his body. He leaned back in his chair, his head drooped over to one side, and his work-worn old hands lay palm upward on his knees. He was fast asleep. The brazier under him con- tinued to glow and send its cheery comfort stealing up around his chair. It had a friendliness and hearty warmth that were more than the kind- ness of many of the old man's friends. The dusk of evening came down and filled the corners with shadows. And presently a glow that was not all in the brazier began to illuminate the center of the room. A thin, wavering mist of smoke curled up around the old man and crept silently along the dingy ceil- ing. A moment later there was a sharp burst of flame that disappeared as sud denly as it came. The old man's trousers leg rested against'the hot brazier, and the fine fire gnawed and sparkled in the heavy cloth, A few shavings on the littered floor of the shop were crisping with sudden wisps of flame, and the chair legs were on fire. But Uncle Luther slept on, wholly unconscious of his danger. Jonathan Dowell, returning from the village, saw a sinister glare in the shop windows. He rushed into the room, seized the old man and lifted him swiftly to one side. Then he beat out the fire with a gunny sack. Uncle Luther sat up, trembling and terrified. His wooden leg was gone. It had burned almost to the stump, and the charred remains were still smoking. Jonathan Dowell’s voice rang with anger. “What won't you do next father?"” he said. “You've set yourself on fire, and nearly burned up the shop. That wooden leg of yours cost me just $50, and it'll be a long time before I can afford another.” And then he saw dimly the agony in his father’s face, and he softened. He was not a bad man, nor even a harsh man—only thoughtless. “You must learn to be more careful, father,” he said gently, and yet insistently, as if he talked to a child, Uncle Luther was glad when his son went away. He crept to his little back room like a wounded dog, and lay down on the bed. Old age had made him sleWw, and he could not realize at first the full magnitude of his disaster; but he knew that he had deeply angered his son. “Tco bad to trouble Jonathan an’ his wife,” he muttered. *“Cory is so thrif- ty an’ partic’'lar. I'm careless, I know it. I'm gettin’ old.” And then after a time his mind reverted to the ear- lier interests of the day, and he said aloud: “I wish Tommy'd got it.” News travels quickly in a small town, and the next morning the sympathetic and the curious came to condole with Uncle Luther, and to examine the re- mains of the fifty-dollar leg, and to point out where the fire had charred the chair. They went about solemnly, as at & funeral, glancing sideways from the corners of their eyes, and yet not missing anything. Among the very fir tain Enoch Bradley, who was a hearty, warm-blooded, irascible old fellow, and his bluff sympathy went far toward solacing Uncle Luther in his affliction. st to call was Cap- 37 EATNER,, b I 7’(»”}7>\\ P2 «ff‘ * “Twant so bad as if you hadn't lost it before,” he comforted. But Uncle Luther had no mind for treating his loss frivolously. The years has crushed all of the humor out of him. nd left him only tragedy. s thinkin’,” he said, “that now I can’t march, p'raps Amery might let Tommy have it—"" Captain Enoch frowned darkly, but Uncle Luther hurried on: “He's more commandin’-that I be, er ever was, er ever will be, an’ he’s had practice s “Oh, you'll be ready to march by Decoration day,” interrupted Captain Enoch. “It's good of vou to say so,” said Uncle Luther, “but I jus’ can’t do it. Tomm and then he add- ed wistfully, “I wisht I could see Tommy But Uncle Tommy did not come. Uncle Luther heard, however, that Uncle Tommy had been appointed marshal of glad of i after the the parade, and he was For himself, he was busied first day or two with a stout piece of ash, which he slowly whittled down with a draw shave to the proportions of a wooden leg. It would not do as well as a regular ar- tificial leg, such as the one he had been wearing, but he hoped that it would serve him for the Memorial day exercises. He still cherished a desire to march with the parade, although he knew that Jonathan would not ap- prove of it. He was afraid of Jona- than. But whole days slipped by wher! he was not strong enough to work, and yet he clung to the task with feverish eagerness. The man within him protested that he was still good for something, that cld age had not robbed him ‘of everything. On the morning of Memorial day the whittling was all finished, but there remained the task of attaching the straps and Uncle Luther knew that he could not hope to complete the leg in time for the exercises. So he laid it away and toward noon he dressed up.in his best blue clothes and put on his wide brimmed black hat with the gold cord around the crown. Then he hobbled out of the door and dropped down on a box by the fence with his back resting against a post. It was a fresh, clear May morning. During the night there had been a shower and the grass at the roadside & BY RAY 0 (9 EE@-@ &, STANNARD stood up green and dewy. The fields of waving wheat blades snread away for miles before him, dotted here and there with houses and red barns and straight rows of Lombardy poplars and cottonwoods. Where Uncle Lu- ther sat he could look up the yellow stretch of roadway and he knew that he could see the parade almost as scon as it left the town. It would pass the end of the lane on its way to the cemetery and he hoped, with the vague optimism of the very old and the very young, that it would come back by the same road. Seeing it was next to marching with it. Uncle Luther put on his long-dis- tance glasses and he saw a blur of blue moving along the road from the village. Above it there was a blur of red and white. A moment later they resolved themselves into a knot of old soldiers, with the flag flapping above them. Uncl> Luther took a long breath and his eyes shone. Suddenly a band began to play the stirring mu- of “Marching Through Georgia.” They've got the band,” exclaimed Uncle Luther, in a voice that choked with ecstasy. Unconsciously he on his one good foot and took off his hat. His eyes dimmed, and as the enlivening strains of the music came up to him another picture formed on his misty glasses. He saw the boys in blue—not a meager handful of gray and stooping remnants, but boys with fresh young faces and broad shoulders and proud chins. They were muddy to the knees with march- ing, they were ragged and tattered, but they swept by to the drums and fifes, regiment after regiment and bri- gade after brigade; and orderlies clat- tered up and down vyith yellow envel- opes stuck in their belts, and the shells were screeching from the rebel heights He saw the companies wheel and de- ploy; he saw them strip down and form in line at “Charge bayonets.” The big, black guns were leaping the ruts in the road, the gunners clinging des- perately to the caissons. Then he saw the long line of gray rise up over the hill, and pour itself down the slope. He saw the ragged, mile long flash of the carbines—and he would have leaped forward to the charge, if for a single moment he had heard the bugle’s shrill summons. Uncle Luther’s spectacles were dim- med. He polished them off with shaky fingers and looked again. Behind the band there was a stretch of white that scemed to nod and twinkle in the sun- shine. “They’ve got the children, faltered. Then the old fellows in blue swung at the corner, they were keeping mili- tary line, and something of the old spirit had thrilled their steps into an unwonted precision. The band, wheel- ing with them, swept into “Rally Round the Flag, Boys.” Uncle Luther leaped forward on his one good leg, waved his hat around his head, and shouted, “Hurrah, hurrah!” His head was thrown back, his eyes flashed, his breath came quick and hot. “Down with the traitor, the star,” he chanted in quavery old voice. Now they had reached the end of the lane, and Uncle Luther could make out the full length of the parade. It was by far the greatest celebration that the town ever had known and his heart swelled with pride at the thought. Not once did he rose t00,” he up with his thin, recall his owy disappointment and sorrow; it was all for the glory of the day. uddenly, Uncle Luther shrank bac What were they trying to do? He felt an impulse to run forward and tell them tnat they had missed the way to the cemetery, and that the lane ran only as far as Jonathan Dowell's house. But before he could “us 27, e EXFCILY,” HE SA7Z. . decide what to stopped, almost little shop. The to one side. It ica,” and the the children rose and fell music. Uncle Luther sank back his box, trembling.. Through a mist of great happiness he saw Unc my and Captain advar ward him side by He believe it at first; he didn't pre “I'm gettin’ old,” he I'm not steady in But he rose Tommy carried do the old soldiers in t of I band had was s own vung out playing “Amer- shrill es sweet, vo of with muttered, my mind mee to hem Uncle odd-shaped package in bis arms, and when he was near to Uncle Luther he stopped and cleared his throat. E very one was silent, lis- tening. “I calculate to make a speec he stammered; “b we thought we'd decorate the livin' this year. Lauther, here's a new leg.” He held out the odd-shaped package helples: Uncle Luther did not seem to see it at all. He reached forward and put his hands on his brother's shoulders, and the leg fell down un- heeded between the two old men Uncle Luther strapped on the leg with trembling, inefficient fingers, and then Captain Enoch and Uncle Tommy 1 out between them. Uncle own horse and buggy, deco- rated with ribbons and flowers, stood in front of the shop. “You're goin' to be the marshal of the day,” said Captain Enoch. “But—Tommy—— “Get in,” commanded Ur Tommy, in a voice that was not to disputed. Uncle Luther, sitting as st sht as a trooper, drove out at the head of the procession, while the band, with a rat- tle of rums, swept into “Hail, Colum- bia, Happy Land.”