Everywhere the same color predominated—a russet brown. Their faces were bronzed and thin. Their beards were long and faded, and tangled like autumn corn silk. Their gaunt, gnarled, and knotted hands held the reins over their equally sad and sober teams. The women looked worn and thin, and sat bent forward over the children in their laps. The dust had settled upon their ill-fitting dresses. There were no smart carriages, no touch of gay paint, no glittering new harnesses; the whole procession was keyed down among the most desolate and sorrowful grays, browns, and drabs.
Slowly they moved past. In some of the wagons, banners, rudely painted on cotton cloth, uttered the farmers' protest in words.
"Good God!" said Davis, as he dashed away at his writing. "Did you ever see such a funeral in your life? See that banner!"
Down with Monopolies.
"All right, down with them; you're the doctor," muttered Davis as he wrote.
Free Trade, Free Land,
Money at Cost,
Transportation at Cost.
"Now you are shouting, brother."
Equal Rights to All is as Dear to
the Heart of the Farmer as it was in
the Days of our Forefathers.
"Well, now, sure you mean that—that's all. Stop talking, and act."
Bradley remained perfectly silent through it all. As these farmers passed before his eyes, there came into his mind vast conceptions which thrilled him till he shuddered—a realization that here was an army of veterans, men grown old in the ferocious struggle against injustice and the apparent niggardliness of nature,—a grim and terrible battle-line. It was made up, throughout its entire length, of old or middle-aged men and women with stooping shoulders, and eyes dim with toil and suffering. There was nothing of lovely girlhood or elastic, smiling boyhood; not a touch of color or grace in the long line of march. It was sombre, silent, ominous, and resolute.