Caleb Wright: A Story of the West

by John Habberton

XV—CAUSE AND EFFECT

"EVER have any trouble with your bath-tub arrangements?" Caleb asked Philip one day when both men were at leisure.

"No," said Philip, somewhat surprised at the question.

"Think the man that put 'em in did the work at a fair price?"

"Oh, yes. But what's on your mind, Caleb? It can't be that you're going to start a plumber in business here? I don't know what cruder revenge a man could take on his worst enemies."

"No," said Caleb. "Heapin' coals o' fire on a man's head, accordin' to Scriptur', is my only way o' takin' revenge nowadays. It most generally does the other feller some good, besides takin' a lot o' the devil out o' yours truly. But about bathin'—well, I learned the good of it when I was a hospital nurse for a spell in the army, an' I've been pretty particular 'bout it ever since, though my bath-tub's only an army rubber blanket with four slats under the edges, to keep the water from gettin' away. I've talked cleanliness a good deal for years, an' told folks that there wa'n't no patent on my kind o' bath-tub; but it ain't over an' above handy, an' most folks in these parts have so much to do that they put off any sort o' work that they ain't kicked into doin'. So, the long an' short of it is that I'm goin' to back a bathin' establishment, for the use of the general public."

"You'll have your labor for your pains, Caleb."

"Don't be too sure o' that. Besides, I'm dead certain that bathin's a means o' grace. Doc Taggess says so, too, an' he ought to know, from his knowledge o' one side o' human nature. He knows a powerful lot about the other side, too, for what Taggess don't know about the human soul is more'n I ever expect to find out. Taggess is a Christian, if ever there was one."

"Right you are, but—have you thought over this project carefully?"

"Been thinkin' over it off an' on, ever since your contraption was put in. You see, it's this way. I own a little house that I lent money on from time to time, till the owner died an' I had to take it in—the mortgages got to be bigger than the house was worth. It's framed heavy enough for a barn, so the upstairs floor'll be strong enough to hold a mighty big tank o' water, an' the well is one o' the deep never-failin' kind. Black Sam, the barber, used to be body-servant to a man down South, an' knows how to give baths—I've had him take care o' me sometimes, when the malary stiffened my j'ints so I couldn't use my arms much. Well, Sam's to have the house, rent free, an' move his barber shop into it. He don't get more'n an hour or two o' work a day, so he'll have plenty o' time to 'tend to bath-house customers that don't know the ropes for themselves, an' we're to divide the receipts. I'm goin' to advertise it well. How's this?" and Caleb took from under the counter a cardboard stencil which he had cut as follows:—

A BATH FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK AND A CIGAR, AND IT WILL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER THAN BOTH OF THEM.

"That's a good advertisement, Caleb—a very good advertisement. But I thought five cents was the customary price of a drink or a cigar out here?"

"So 'tis—ten cents for both; but I've ciphered that it'll pay, an' Black Sam's satisfied. You see, fuel's cheap; besides, in summer time the upstairs part of that house, right under the roof, is about as hot, 'pears to me, as the last home o' the wicked, so if the tank's filled overnight, the water'll be warm by mornin'."

"You've a long head, Caleb. Still, I've my doubts about your getting customers. 'You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink'—you've heard the old saying?"

"Often, but some folks in this country would go through fire—an' even water—for the sake o' somethin, new. I've cal'lated to make a free bath a throw-in' to some o' our customers that I could name, but first I'm goin' to try it on some old chums. I'm goin' to have the grand openin' on Decoration Day, an' try it on all the members of our Grand Army post. The boys'll do anythin' for an old comrade, specially if he's post commander, as I be. There was all sorts in the army, an' sometimes it's seemed to me that the right ones didn't get killed, nor even die afterwards. There's three or four of 'em in this county that makes it a p'int o' gettin' howlin' drunk on Decoration Day, which kind o' musses up the spirit o' the day for the rest of us. They're to have the first baths; I'm goin' to 'gree with 'em that if a bath don't make 'em feel better than a drink, I'll supply the liquor afterwards; but if it does, why, then they're not to touch a drop all day. Black Sam reckons that by bein' spry he can curry 'em down, so to speak, at the rate of a man ev'ry ten minutes, an' there's only seventeen men in the post. I reckon that them that don't drink'll feel just as good after bein' cleaned up, as them that do drink, an' I'm goin' to get 'em to talk it up all day, so's to keep the rummies up to the mark. The tank lumber's all ready; so's the carpenter, an' I reckon I'll write that plumber to-day."

Philip told Grace of Caleb's new project, and Grace was astonished and delighted, and then thoughtful and very silent for a few minutes, after which she said:—

"Some of the New York baths have women's days, or women's hours. I wonder if Black Sam couldn't teach the business to his wife?"—a remark which Philip repeated to Caleb, and for days afterward Caleb's hat was poised farther back on his head than usual, and more over one ear.

"This enterprise of Caleb's," Grace said to her husband, "has set me wondering anew what Caleb does with his money. He has no family; his expenses are very small, for he is his own housekeeper and pays no rent, and you pay him three hundred dollars a year."

"That isn't all his income," Philip replied, "for he gets once in three months a pension check of pleasing size. Still, you would be astonished to know how little cash he draws on account, and how great a quantity of goods is charged to him from month to month. I've been curious enough about it, at times, to trace the items from the ledger back to the day-book, and I learned that his account for groceries, food-stuffs generally, and dry goods is far larger than our own. As for patent medicines, he seems to consume them by the gallon—perhaps with the hope of curing his malaria. I've sometimes been at the point of asking him what he does with all of it; if he weren't so transparently, undoubtedly honest, I should imagine that he was doing a snug little private business on his own account; for, as you know, he pays only original cost price for what he buys."

"There is but one explanation," Grace said after a moment or two of thought. "It is plain that he is engaged in charitable work, and is living up to the spirit of the injunction not to let his left hand know what his right hand is doing. And oh, Phil, long as we've been here,—almost half a year,—we've never done any charitable work whatever."

"Haven't we, indeed! You are continually doing all sorts of kindnesses for all sorts of people, and as you and I are one, and as whatever you do is right in your husband's eyes, I think I may humbly claim to be your associate in charity."

"But I've done no charities. Everything I do seems to bring more business to the store. I've no such intention, but the fact remains. I never give away anything, for I never see an opportunity, but it seems that Caleb does."

"Ah, well, question him yourself, and if your suspicions prove correct, don't let us be outdone in that kind of well-doing."

"Caleb," Grace asked at her first opportunity, "aren't there any deserving objects of charity in Claybanks?"

"Well," Caleb replied, "that depends on what you mean by deservin', an' by charity—too. I s'pose none of us—except p'r'aps you—deserve anythin' in particular, an' as you seem to have ev'rythin' you want, there ain't any anyhow. But there's some that's needy, an' that'll get along better for a lift once in a while."

"Do tell me about some of them. I don't want any one to suffer if my husband and I can prevent it."

"That sounds just like you, but I don't exactly see what you can do. Fact is, you have to know the folks mighty well, or you're likely to do more harm'n good, for the best o' folks seem to be spiled when they get somethin' for nothin'. But there's some of our people that's had their ups an' downs,—principally downs,—an' a little help now an' then does 'em a mighty sight o' good. There's women that's lost their husbands, an' have to scratch gravel night an' day to feed their broods. Watchin' the ways of some of 'em's made me almost b'lieve the old yarn about the bird that tears itself to pieces to feed its young."

"Oh, Caleb!"

"Fact. There's no knowin' what you can see 'till you look for it good an' hard."

"But food is so cheap in this country that I didn't suppose the poorest could suffer. Corn-meal less than a cent a pound, flour two cents, meat only four or five—"

"Yes, but folks that don't have grist-mills, nor animals to kill, would put it the other way; they'd say that dollars an' cents are awfully dear. Why, Mis' Somerton, when some folks, that I could name, comes into the store with their truck to trade for things, an' I see 'em lookin' at this thing, an' that, an' t'other, that shows what they're wantin,' and needin,' an' can't get,—oh, it brings Crucifixion Day right before my eyes—that's just what it does. I've seen lots o' sad things in my day—like most men, I s'pose. I've seen hundreds o' men shot to pieces, an' thousands dyin' by inches, but you never can guess what it was that broke me up most an' longest."

"Probably not; so, that being the case, do tell me."

"Well, one day I'd just weighed out a pound o' tea, with a lot of other stuff that Mis' Taggess was goin' to call for, an' a widder woman that had been tradin' two or three pound o' butter for some things, picked up the paper o' tea, an' looked at it, an' held it kind o' close to her face, an' sniffed at it. She was as plain-featured a woman as you can find hereabouts, which is sayin' a good deal, but as she smelled o' that tea her face changed, an' changed, an' changed, till it reminded me of a picture I once saw in somebody's house—'Ecstacy' was the name of it; so I said:—

"'I reckon you're a judge o' good tea' (for Mis' Taggess won't have any but the best) 'an' that you kind o' like it, too?'

"'Like it?' says she, wavin' the paper o' tea across her face an' then puttin' it down sharp-like, 'I like it about as much as I like the comin' o' Sunday,' which was comin' it pretty strong, for I didn't know any woman that was more religious, or that had better reason to want a day of rest. An' yet she was just the nervous, tired kind, to which a cup o' good tea is meat an' drink an' newspapers an' a hand-organ besides; so I says:—

"'Better buy a little o' this, then, while we've got it. I'm a pretty good judge o' tea myself, an' we never had any to beat this.'

"'Buy it?' says she. 'What with?'

"'Well,' says I, knowin' her to be honest, 'if you've traded out all your truck, I'll charge it, an' you can settle for it when you bring in some more, or mebbe some cash.'

"'Buy tea!' says she, lookin' far-away-like. 'I hain't been well enough off to drink tea since my husband died, though there's been nights when I haven't been able to sleep for thinkin' of it.'

"Think o' that! An' there was me, that's had two cups or more ev'ry night for years, an' thought I couldn't live without it! I come mighty nigh to chokin' to death, but I done up another pound as quick as I could, an' some white sugar too, an' I shoved 'em over to her, an' says I:—

"'Here's a sin-offerin' from a penitent soul, an' I don't know a better altar for it than your tea-kettle.'

"She was kind of offish at first, but thinkin' of her goin' without tea made me kind o' leaky about the eyes, an' that broke her down, an' she told me, 'fore she knowed what she was doin', about the awful hard time she an' her young ones had had, though before that nobody'd ever knowed her to give a single grunt, for she was as independent as she was poor. After that I often gave her a lift, in one way or other. She kicked awful hard at first; but I reminded her that the Bible said that part o' true religion was to visit the fatherless an' widders in their 'fliction, so she oughtn't to put stumblin'-blocks in the way of a man who was tryin' to live right; an' as I didn't have no time for makin' visits myself, it was only fair to let me send a substitute, in the shape of comfort for her an' the young ones, an' she 'greed, after a spell, to look at it in that light."

"Caleb, are there many more people of that kind in the town?"

"No—no—not quite as bad off as she was, in some ways, and yet in other ways some of 'em are worse. I mean drunkards' families. How a drunkard's wife stays alive at all beats me; the Almighty must 'a' put somethin' in women that we men don't know nothin' about. After lots o' tryin', I made up my mind the only way to help a drunkard's family is to reform the drunkard, so I laid low, an' picked my time, an' when the man had about a ton o' remorse on him, as all drunkards do have once in a while, I'd bargain with him that if he'd stop drinkin' I'd see his family didn't suffer while he was makin' a fresh start. I made out 'twas a big thing for me to do, for they knowed I was sickly and weak, an' if I saved my money, instead o' layin' it out on 'em, I could go off an' take a long rest, an' p'r'aps get to be somethin' more than skin an' bones an' malary. It most gen'rally fetched 'em. It's kept me poor, spite o' my havin' pretty good pay an' nobody o' my own to care for, but there was no one else to do it, except Doc Taggess an' his wife: they've done more good o' that kind than anybody'll know till Judgment Day."

"There'll be some one else in future, Caleb. Tell me whom to begin with, and how, and I shall be extremely thankful to you."

"Just what I might 'a' knowed you would 'a' said, though seems to me you're already helpin' ev'rybody in your own way."

"But I'm spending no money. As a great favor tell me who it is for whom you're doing most, and let me relieve you of it, if only that you may use your money in some other way."

"That's mighty hearty o' you, but I reckon it wouldn't work. You see it's this way. You remember One-Arm Ojam, from Middle Crick township?"

"That tall, dashing-looking Southerner?"

"Exactly. Well, you see he lost his arm fightin' for the South—lost it at Gettysburg, where I got some bullets that threw my machinery out o' gear considerable, besides one that's stuck closer'n a brother ever since. Well, he don't draw no pension,—'tain't necessary to state the reasons,—but I get a middlin' good one. He was grumblin' pretty hard one day 'bout how tough it was on a man to fight the battle o' life single-handed, an' says I to him, knowin' he drank pretty hard:—

"'It must be, when with t'other hand he loads up with stuff that cripples his head too.'

"He 'lowed that that kind o' talk riled him, an' I said I was glad it did, an' we jawed along for a spell, like old soldiers can when they get goin', till all of a sudden he says:—

"'A man that gets a pension don't have to drink to keep him goin'.'

"'Well, Ojam,' says I, 'if that's a fact, an' I don't say it ain't, you can stop drinkin' right now, if you want to.'

"'What do you mean?' says he.

"'Just what I say,' says I. 'My pension's yours, from this on, so long's you don't drink.'

"'I ain't goin' to be bought over to be a Yank,' says he.

"'I don't want you to be a Yank,' says I. 'You're an American, an' that's the best thing that any old vet can be. I want to buy you over to be a clear-headed man. I've got nothin' to make by it, but it'll be the makin' o' you.'

"Well, he went off mad, an' he told his wife an' young ones, an' in a day or two he came back, an' says he:—

"'Caleb, I ain't a plum fool; but if you're dead sot on bein' one, why, I'll take that pension o' yourn, the way you said.'

"So I shelled out the last quarter's money at once, an' then began the hardest fight One-Arm Ojam ever got into. He 'lowed afterwards that 'twas tougher than Gettysburg, an' lasted 'bout a hundred times as long. 'Fore that, when he hankered for a drink, he'd shell a bushel o' corn by hand, an' bring it in to Bustpodder's store, an' trade it for a quart, but now he had money enough to buy 'most a bar'l of the sort of stuff that he drank. There's a tough lot o' fellows up in his section,—'birds of a feather flock together,' you know,—an' they made fun o' him, an' nagged him most to death, till one day he owned up to me that he was in a new single-handed fight that was harder'n the old one.

"'You idjit,' says I, 'when you got in a hot place in the war you didn't try to fight single-handed, did you? You got with a squad, or a comp'ny, or regiment, didn't you, so's to have all the help you could get, didn't you?'

"''Course I did,' says he.

"'Then,' says I, 'what's the matter with your j'inin' the Sons o' Temperance, an' j'inin' the church, too?' Well, ma'am, that knocked him so cold that he turned ash-colored, an' his knees rattled; but says I, 'I've got my opinion of a man that charged with Pickett at Gettysburg an' afterwards plays coward anywhere else.'

"That fetched him. He j'ined the Sons, an' he j'ined the church, an' rememberin' that the best way to keep a recruit from desertin' is to put him in the front rank at once, an' keep him at it, some of us egged him on until he became a local preacher an' started a lodge o' Sons o' Temperance in his section. He's offered two or three times to give up the pension, for he's got sort o' forehanded, spite o' havin' only one hand to do it with, but as I knowed he was spendin' all of it, an' more too, on men that he's tryin' to straighten up an' pull out o' holes, I said, 'No.' For, you see, I'd been wonderin' for years what a man that had had his heart sot on doin' good in the world, as mine was before the war, should 'a' been shot most to pieces at Gettysburg for, but now I'd found out; for if I hadn't got shot, I wouldn't 'a' got the pension that reformed One-Arm Ojam, an' is reformin' all the rest o' Middle Crick Township. 'God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform;' but I s'pose you've helped sing that in church?"

XVI—DECORATION DAY[1]

SELDOM does any community have the good fortune to have two great events fall upon a single day, but on May 30, 188-, Claybanks and vicinity palpitated from centre to circumference over the celebration of Decoration Day and the opening of the Claybanks Bath-house. The public buildings did not close; neither did the stores, for the entire community flocked to the town, and the stores were the only possible lounging-places. Grace had learned, to her great regret, which was shared by Caleb, that the local Grand Army post never paraded in uniform, for the reason that the members found it too hard to supply themselves with sufficient clothing, for every day and Sunday use, to afford a suit to be worn only a single day of the year, and she had told Caleb that it was a shame that the government did not supply its old soldiers with uniforms in which to celebrate their one great day, and Caleb had replied that perhaps if it did, the Southerner Ojam, who had charged with Pickett at Gettysburg, and who always marched with the "boys" to decorate the graves, might feel ruled out, and then Grace had unburdened her heart to Philip, and given him so little peace about it that finally he became so interested in the Grand Army of the Republic that he studied all the local members as intently as if he were looking for a long-lost brother.

But when the sun of Decoration Day arose, the centre of interest was the bath-house. The veterans who had been selected for the opening ceremonies approached the place as tremblingly as a lot of penitents for public baptism; some of them were so appalled at the prospect that they approached the house by devious ways, even by sneaking through various back yards and climbing fences. Caleb himself was somewhat mystified by a request from Black Sam that he would remain out of sight until the ordeal had ended; and as the store filled early with customers, and Philip was obliged to be absent for an hour or two, Caleb was compelled to comply with the request, after sending word to the non-drinking members to keep the others from the vicinity of Bustpodder's store and all other places where liquor was sold. The caution did not seem to be necessary, however; for not a man emerged from the bath-house to answer the questions of the multitude that was consuming with curiosity, and from which arose from time to time sundry cheers and jeers that must have been exasperating in the extreme.

Suddenly Philip appeared in the store, and said:—

"Caleb, you're wanted at the bath-house. Better go up there at once. No, nothing wrong; but go."

Business went on, and Grace did her best to attend to a score of feminine customers at one and the same time; but suddenly the entire crowd hurried out of the store, for the sound of the G. A. R.'s fife and drum, playing "We'll Rally Round the Flag," floated through the open doors and windows.

"I suppose we, too, may as well look at the procession," said Philip, moving toward the door.

"Oh, Phil!" exclaimed Grace, looking up the street, "they have guns, and they're in uniforms. How strange! Caleb told me they hadn't any."

"True, but Caleb is a great man to bring new things to pass."

"They're all in uniform but three," said Grace, as the little procession approached the store. "The fifer and drummer and the man with the flag haven't any. What a—"

"The fifer and drummer were not soldiers. The man with the flag is One-Arm Ojam, who was in Pickett's great charge at Gettysburg, and he's in full Confederate gray."

So he was, even to a gray hat, with the Stars and Bars on its front, and a long gray plume at its side, and the magnificent Southern swagger with which he bore the colors was—after the flag itself—the grandest feature of the procession. The multitude on both sides of the street applauded wildly, but the old soldiers marched as steadily as if they were on duty, for the uniforms and muskets were recalling old times in their fulness. Suddenly, as the procession reached the front of the store, Post-Commander Caleb Wright, sword in hand, shouted:—

"Halt! Front! Right—dress! Front! Present—arms!"

To the front came the muskets, Caleb's sword-hilt was raised to his chin, Ojam drooped the flag, and Philip doffed his hat.

"Why did they do that, I wonder?" asked Grace.

"Oh, some notion of Caleb's, I suppose," Philip replied.

"Shoulder—arms!" shouted Caleb. "Order—arms! Three cheers for the uniforms!"

Eighteen slouch hats waved in the air, an eighteen-soldier-power roar arose, the fife shrieked three times, the drummer rolled three ruffles. Then One-Arm Ojam, the flag rested against his armless shoulder, waved his gray hat picturesquely, and roared:—

"Three cheers for the giver of the uniforms!"

When a second round of cheering ended, a man in the ranks shouted "Speech!" and the word was echoed by several others. Then Philip, while his wife's lips became shapeless in wide-mouthed wonder, removed his hat and said:—

"Fellow-Americans, the uniforms weren't a gift. They're merely a partial payment, on my own account, for what you did for mine and me when I was very young. This is one of the proudest days of my life; for though I took the measure of each of you by guess-work, no man's clothes seem a very bad fit." Then he returned abruptly into the store, followed by his wife, who exclaimed:—

"You splendid, dreadful fellow! You were letting me believe that Caleb did it!"

"So he did, my dear. 'Twas your telling me the story of Caleb's pension that set me thinking hard about the old soldiers and what they did, and of how little consideration they get. Besides, I'm always wishing to do something special to please Caleb, and this was the first chance I'd seen in a long time. His fear of One-Arm Ojam being estranged if the Post got into uniform troubled me for a day or two, but I seem to have taken Ojam's measure—in both senses—quite well."

Suddenly Grace began to laugh, and continued until she became almost helpless, Philip meanwhile looking as if he wondered what he had said that could have been so amusing.

"If your Uncle Jethro could have been here!" she said as soon as she could.

"To be horrified at the manner in which a lot of his money has been spent? If I'm not mistaken, 'twill have been the cheapest advertising this establishment ever did, though I hadn't the slightest thought of business while I was planning it."

"That isn't what I meant," Grace said. "I was thinking of your uncle's disgust when he learned that one of your reasons for wishing to live in New York was that you might study art. Your studies never went far beyond sketching the human figure, poor boy; but if he were here to-day, and you were to tell him that your art studies, such as they were, had enabled you to guess correctly the proportions of eighteen suits of men's clothes, imagine his astonishment—if you can."

Then the laughter was resumed, and Philip assisted at it, until Caleb entered the store and said:—

"We've been comparin' notes,—the boys an' me, an' we've agreed that it beat any surprises we had in the war; for there, we always knowed, the surprises was layin' in wait for us a good deal of the time. How you managed it beats me."

"Phil, didn't even Caleb know what was going on?"

"Not until he left the store about half an hour ago."

"Oh, you splendid, smart—"

"Spare my blushes, dear girl. As to the things, Caleb, I had them addressed to Black Sam, whom I let into the secret, and I had them wagoned at night from the railway to the bath-house, where he unpacked them and hid them in one of his rooms."

"I want to know! But what put you up to thinkin' o' doin' the greatest thing that—"

"'Twas a story my wife told me, about the way you dispose of your pension. 'Twas all of your own doing, after all, you see."

Caleb looked sheepish, said something about the "boys" becoming uneasy unless the march was resumed, and made haste to rejoin his command, but stopped halfway to the door, and said:—

"Mebbe 'tain't any o' my business, but as I'm Commander of the Post, an' yet you've been managin' it most o' the mornin', an' I hadn't time to ask the why an' wherefore o' things,—how did you get Ojam to carry our flag?"

"Oh, I dared him."

"An' he, bein' a Southerner, wouldn't take a dare?"

"On the contrary, it needed no dare. He said he'd been longing for such a chance for many years; for you'd reminded him one day that he was an American, and that plain American was good enough for you. 'Twas a case exactly like that of the uniforms, Caleb; 'twas you that did it—not I."

Again Caleb looked sheepish, and this time he succeeded in rejoining his command and marching it toward the cemetery, followed by the entire populace.

"We may as well go, too," said Philip, closing the store.

"But not empty-handed," Grace said, snatching a basket from a hook and hurrying into her garden, where she quickly cut everything that showed any color or bloom, saying as she did so:—

"Perhaps they don't use flowers here, but 'twill do no harm to offer them."

"I'll get out the horse and buggy; that basket will be very heavy," said Philip.

"Not as heavy as the veterans' guns—and some widow's memories," Grace replied; "so let us walk."

Together they hurried along the dusty road and joined the irregular procession of civilians that followed the veterans. The Claybanks "God's acre" bore no resemblance to the park-like cemeteries which Grace had seen near New York, nor did it display any trace of the neatness which marked the little enclosure in which rested the dead of Grace's native village. A man with a scythe had been sent in on the previous day, to make the few soldiers' graves approachable; but weeds and brambles were still abundant near the fence, and Grace shuddered when she saw that most of the graves were marked only by lettered boards instead of stones, and that tiny graves were numerous. Evidently Claybanks was a dangerous place for infants.

Soon she saw that the usefulness of flowers on Decoration Day was not unknown at Claybanks, and, as the "Ritual of the Dead" had already been read and as the veterans were informally passing from grave to grave, she made her way to Caleb, and said reproachfully:—

"Why didn't you ask me for some flowers?"

"I 'lowed that I would," Caleb replied, looking at Grace's basket, "but Mis' Taggess came to me, an' says she, 'Don't you do it, or she'll cut everything in sight,' an' from the looks o' things I reckon that's just what you've done. It's a pity, too, for we hain't got many soldier-dead, an' their graves is pretty well covered."

"In the paht of the Saouth that I come from," ventured One-Arm Ojam, "ev'rybody's graves has flowers put on 'em on Memorial Day, an' the women an' children do most of it."

"You Grand Army men won't feel hurt if the custom is started here, will you?" Grace asked of Caleb.

"Not us!" was the reply; so Grace begged the women and children to assist her, and within a few moments every grave in the cemetery had a bit of bloom upon it, and the women had informally resolved that the custom should be followed thereafter on Decoration Day.

Then the Grand Army Post was called to order, and marched back to the town, led by the fifer and drummer and followed by the people.

"Is that all?" Grace asked, when the store had been reopened, and Caleb entered, unclasped his sword-belt, and gazed affectionately at the sword.

"All of what?"

"All of the day's ceremonies."

"In one way, yes, but we vets have a sort o' camp-fire; we get together in my room, after dark, an' swap yarns, an' sing songs, an' have somethin' to eat an' drink, an' manage to have a jolly good time."

"I hope you'll leave the windows open while you sing."

"We'll have to all the time, I reckon, the weather bein' as hot as 'tis, but I know the boys'll be pleased to hear that you asked it."

"Oh, wouldn't I like to be a mouse in the corner to-night!" Grace said after she had laid away the very last of the supper dishes and dropped into a hammock-chair on the coolest side of the house. "A mouse in the corner, and hear the war-stories those veterans will tell! They looked so unlike themselves to-day."

"Possibly because of Caleb's bath-house," Philip suggested, "although I don't doubt that Caleb would be gracious enough to hint that the new uniforms also had some transforming effect."

"What do you suppose they will have to eat and drink in Caleb's room? I wish I dared make something nice and send it in. Let me see; we've a lot of the potted meats and fancy biscuits and other things that I ordered from the city a week or two ago, to abate the miseries of summer housekeeping. I could make half a dozen kinds of biscuit sandwiches in ten minutes, and I could give them iced tea with lemon and sugar, and oh—"

"Well?"

"There's been so much excitement to-day that I entirely forgot the grand surprise I'd planned for some of the farmers' wives. I declare 'tis too bad! Our ice-cream freezer came last week, you know, and this morning I made the first lot, and I was going to serve saucers of it to some of the women who came to the store—it seems that ice-cream is unknown in this country. But your surprise, of putting the Grand Army men into uniforms, put everything else out of my mind for the day. Let's bring it from the ice-house, and send it over to Caleb's room to the veterans!"

"My dear girl, the cream will keep till to-morrow, so do try to possess your soul in peace, and leave those veterans to their own devices. Old soldiers are reputed to be willing to eat and drink anything or nothing if they may have a feast of war-stories."

"When do you suppose they'll begin to sing?"

"Not having been a soldier, I can't say. Perhaps not at all, if Caleb's plan of keeping the drinking men from liquor has succeeded."

"Phil, don't be so horrid. Oh!—what is that?"

It was the beginning of a song—not badly sung, either—"'Tis a Way We Have in the Army." Some of the words were ridiculous, but there could be no criticism of the spirit of the singers. Advancing cautiously, under cover of semi-darkness and the brushwood arbor, Grace saw so many figures near the front of the house that she could not doubt that the Grand Army Post was tendering her or her husband the compliment of a serenade, so she applauded heartily. Another song, "There's Music in the Air," followed, and yet another, both in fair time and tune.

"I'm going to find out whom those leading voices belong to," Grace said. "Light the lamps, won't you?" Then she stepped from the arbor, and said:—

"Thank you very much, gentlemen, but my husband and I are real selfish people, so we won't be satisfied until you come into the house and sing us all the army songs you know."

Two or three veterans started to run, but they were stopped by others. Grace heard them protesting that they were not of the singers, so she hurried out and declared that she would forego the anticipated pleasure rather than break up their own party; so within a moment or two the entire Post, with One-Arm Ojam, were in the parlor, where some stared about in amazement, while others looked as distressed as cats in a strange kitchen. But host and hostess pressed most of them into seats, and Caleb stood guard at the door, having first whispered to Grace:—

"The pianner'll hold 'em—but don't play 'Marchin' through Georgy,' please; we take pains not to worry One-Arm Ojam."

Grace whispered to Philip, who left the room; then she seated herself at the piano and rattled off "Dixie" with fine spirit. Soon she stopped, looked about inquiringly, and asked:—

"Can't any of you sing it? Now!"

Again she attacked the piano. Some one started the song, darkey-fashion, by singing one bar, the others joining vociferously in the second; this was repeated, and then all gave the chorus, and so the song went on so long as any one could recall words. This was followed, at a venture, by "Maryland, my Maryland," for which the Union veterans had one set of words, and Ojam another, although the general effect was good. The ice was now broken, and the men suggested one song after another, for most of which Grace discovered that she knew the airs—for while the war created many new songs, it inspired little new music.

The singing continued until the guests became hoarse, by which time Philip entered with iced lemonade made with tea, and Grace followed with sandwiches and biscuits and cake, which prompted some of the men to tell what they did not have to eat in the army. From this to war-stories was but a short step, and as every veteran, however stupid, has at least one war-story that is all his own, the host and hostess enjoyed a long entertainment of a kind entirely new to them. Meanwhile Grace was pressing refreshments on the men individually, but suddenly she departed. When she returned, in a few moments, she bore a tray covered with saucers of ice-cream, and the astonishment which the contents produced, as it reached the palates of the guests, made Grace almost apoplectic in her endeavors to keep from laughing.

"What is it?" whispered a veteran who had not yet been served to one who was ecstatically licking his spoon.

"Dog my cats if I know!" was the reply, as the man took another mouthful. "It tastes somethin' like puddin'—an' custard—an' cake—an' like the smell of ol' Mis' Madden's vanilla bean,—an'—" but just then the questioner was given an opportunity to taste for himself, after which he said:—

"It beats the smell o' my darter's hair-ile—beats it all holler."

"I reckon," said Caleb, who had inspected the freezer on its arrival, and had been wildly curious as to its product, "I reckon it's ice-cream."

"What? That stuff that there's jokes about in the newspapers sometimes,—jokes about gals that's too thin-waisted to hug, but can eat barl's of it?"

"Yes; that's the stuff."

"The dickens! Well, ef I was a gal, I'd let out tucks all day long an' durn the expense, if my feller'd fill my bread-basket with stuff like that. Must be frightful costly, though."

"Not more'n plain custard, Mis' Somerton says."

"Wh-a-a-a-a-at? Say, Caleb, I'm goin' to j'in the church, right straight off. No more takin' any risks o' hell for me, thank you, for it stands to reason that they can't make ice-cream down there."

When the contents of the freezer were exhausted, Philip, who never smoked, opened a box of fine cigars which he had ordered from the East, with a view to business with visiting lawyers in the approaching "Court-week." Then the joy of the veterans was complete; the windows were opened, for, as Caleb said, no mosquito would venture into such a cloud, and it was not until midnight that any one thought to ask the time.

"I'm afeared," said Caleb, after all the other guests had departed, "that you'll have a mighty big job o' dish-washin' to-morrow, but—"

"But 'twas richly worth it," Grace said, and Philip assented.

"That's very kind o' you, but 'tain't what I was goin' to say, which was that I'll turn in and help, if you'll let me, an' another thing is, you've put an end to any chance of any of the boys takin' a drink of anythin' stronger than water to-night, an' you've made sure of some new customers, too."

"Oh, Caleb!" Grace said, "can't we do anything hearty for its own sake, without being rewarded for it?"

"Nary thing!" Caleb replied. "That's business truth, an' Gospel truth, too."

[1] In most states of the American Union the 30th of May is a legal holiday called Decoration Day, the purpose being to honor, by various means, the memory of the soldiers who died in defence of the Union in the great Civil War of 1861-65. More than a quarter of a million survivors of the Union army are members of a fraternal society called the Grand Army of the Republic, which is divided into about seven thousand local branches called Posts. The organization is military in form, each post having a body of officers with military titles and insignia. All posts carry the national colors in their parades, and are expected to be uniformed in close imitation of the service dress of the army of the United States. A few posts bear arms, and each member of the order wears a medal made by the national government from cannon captured from the enemy. The posts always parade on Decoration Day, and at cemeteries where soldiers of the Union army have been interred they read their "Ritual of the Dead" and decorate the graves with flags and flowers. In recent years the order has decorated the graves of dead Confederates also, and there have been many friendly interchanges of civilities and hospitalities between the Grand Army of the Republic and the Southern survivors' organization known as The United Confederate Veterans—an order which has about fifty thousand members.