“You say that's twenty years old, Hillard?” asked Uncle Davy as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and again held the little glass out entreatingly:
“Hillard, ain't it mighty small for its age—'pears to me it orter be twins to make it the regulation size. Don't you think so?”
The Bishop gave him another and took one himself, remarking as he did so, “I was pow'ful flustrated when I heard you was dyin' again, Davy, an' I need it to stiddy my nerves. Now, fetch out yo' will, Davy,” he added.
As he took it the Bishop adjusted his big spectacles, buttoned up his coat, and drew himself up as he did in the pulpit. He blew his nose to get a clear sonorous note:
“I've got a verse of poetry that I allers tunes my voice up to the occasion with,” he said. “I do it sorter like a fiddler tunes up his fiddle. It's a great poem an' I'll put it agin anything in the Queen's English for real thunder music an' a sentiment that Shakespeare an' Milton nor none of 'em cud a writ. It stirs me like our park of artillery at Shiloh, an' it puts me in tune with the great dead of all eternity. It makes me think of Cap'n Tom an' Albert Sidney Johnston.”
Then in a deep voice he repeated:
“'The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo—
No more on earth's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread
And glory guards with solemn sound
The Bivouac of the Dead.'”
“Now give me yo' will.”
Uncle Davy sat up solemnly, keenly, expectantly. Tilly and Aunt Sally sat subdued and sad, with that air of solemn importance and respect which might be expected of a dutiful daughter and bereaved widow on such an occasion. It was too solemn for Uncle Davy. He began to whimper again: “I didn't think I would ever live to see the day when I'd hear my own will read after I was dead, an' Hillard a-readin' it around my own corpse. It's Tilly's handwrite,” he explained, as he saw the Bishop scrutinizing the testament closely. “I can't write, as you kno', but I've made my mark at the end, an' I want you to witness it.”
Pitching his voice to organ depths, the Bishop read: