“Thirty-six so far,” Grandma LaDou said proudly.
Annette was busy with the photographer, but Emily lingered looking at the dazzling array. When she said good-by, Aunt Sophie and Grandma LaDou each handed her a tissue-wrapped package. Emily flushed with pleasure.
“For me?”
“Of course,” said Aunt Sophie. “Graduation presents.”
Emily smiled all the way across the slough. It was exciting to have two graduation presents. She had known, of course, that she would receive some, but still it was nice to have them appear. One box was oblong, the other round.
“I’ll open them with Grandpa,” she thought.
This time he was waiting in his chair in the dining room window. Emily ran in and sat down on a stool beside him.
“Is the sun going to set red?” he asked.
“Why, yes, Grandpa. Look what Aunt Sophie and Uncle Chester have…”
“If the sun goes down red, it’ll be fair tomorrow.”
“It will be fair, all right. Aunt Sophie…”
“Judge Hodges and I aren’t afraid of the heat,” her grandfather said. “Emmy, did you press my uniform?”
“Yes, Grandpa. I pressed it.” She was quiet, and her interrupted sentence must have echoed in the silence for her grandfather asked suddenly, “What about Sophie and Chester?”
“They gave me a present. For my graduation. And so did Mrs. LaDou. I brought them home to open with you.” She showed him the packages.
Her grandfather beamed with pleasure. “Now that was nice of Sophie and Chester!” he said.
Emily took up Aunt Sophie’s box. She untied the ribbons as slowly as possible to draw out the fun.
“What do you suppose it is? A bracelet?”
“Hurry up! Let’s have a look at it.”
She unfolded the tissue paper and lifted the cover off the box. Twilight was dimming the little dining room but there was still light enough to see.
“Grandpa! Look! It’s one of those new fountain pens.”
“A fountain pen? What kind’s that?”
“You can fill it with ink. You don’t need to keep dipping it in the ink pot all the time,” Emily explained.
Her grandfather examined it in pleased bewilderment. “Now that was nice of Sophie and Chester!” he said again.
Grandma LaDou had given her a sewing bag made of violet satin, very handsome. Happily, Emily arranged the two presents in their beds of tissue paper on the parlor center table. She took her dress out of its box and put it on a hanger. They went to the kitchen where she set out bread and milk.
“I’ll have to eat quickly,” she said. “I’m going to the high school tonight for Class Day exercises.”
Her grandfather didn’t answer, but when he had finished his supper he put down his spoon and looked at her. His head was held low, as she so often held her own, and his eyes, under puzzled brows, glanced up sharply.
“Emmy,” he said, “oughtn’t I to give you a graduation present?”
“Pshaw!” said Emily. “You’re giving me my pretty white dress.”
“That’s not a present.”
“And I’m buying roses for graduation night. They’re really a present from you.” She jumped up, smiling. “I have to hurry now and change my dress. You get to bed early, on account of Decoration Day tomorrow.”
Class Day was a riot of fun. Lights were blazing over the packed Assembly Room. The platform was concealed by a cambric curtain which billowed out grotesquely as concealed figures moved behind its shelter. Now and then Scid Edwards thrust his face, heavily painted and with blackened eyebrows, between the curtains to grimace at the crowd which responded with cheers and laughter.
The senior girls—the ones who weren’t in the play—wore their Class Day dresses. Emily’s was made of corn-colored silk with long sleeves and a long slim skirt. She sat with Mabel Scott, a tall, dark, fragile girl who, like herself, didn’t go with boys. They sat near the front where they wouldn’t miss a ripple of the fun.
The play, called “One Night Only,” was interrupted continually, not only by forgotten lines but by uproarious laughter. The author’s jokes were much less effective than Jim Baxter’s difficulties with the monocle he wore as Lord Mulberry—or Hunter on his knees to Nell Hennesy, his wife—or Scid’s exaggerated courtship of the maid, Annette, who wore a cap with long floating strings. The audience stamped, clapped and whistled when Scid kissed her.
Between the acts the Class Papers were read to tumultuous applause. The Class Will gave Emily the Carnegie Library. In the Class Prophecy it was predicted that she would debate in the United States Senate.
In the midst of the clapping which followed that, Hunter started a cheer. It had been used all season at the inter-school debates.
“There’s Webster, King and Walker,
And they can talk a few,
With such an aggregation,
We won’t do much to you.”
Emily had never thought to hear it again. Her surprise and pleasure almost choked her.
The evening ended with the Class Song, written to the tune of “I’d Love to Live in Loveland.”
“We hate to leave the high school,
To a crowd like you…”
The Class of 1912 was jammed on the stage together, those who had taken part in the play still wearing their makeup, their red cheeks, black eyebrows and fantastic hair. Arms were hooked. Everyone was swaying in unison.
Emily’s eyes were shining, but inside she kept remembering that Class Day was the last event before Commencement. The Award Assembly and the Junior-Senior banquet had slipped away. Soon this would be gone, too.
She looked, as she always did, for Don. Annette, hanging on his arm, caught her eyes and winked with roguish affection.
Emily returned to the joyous rhythm of the song.
“We hate…to leave…the high school,” she sang, swaying with the rest.
4
Decoration Day
SHE WAS MAKING COFFEE the next morning when her grandfather’s door opened and he came out, dressed in his Civil War uniform. The blue coat was buttoned smartly up to the turned-down collar. A cartridge belt encircled his gently bulging waist. His skull cap was replaced by a jaunty forage cap, and a sheepish smile bathed his face.
“Grandpa!” cried Emily. “How nice you look!”
“Do I?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Turn around! You even shined your shoes.”
“Of course! In the army you have to shine your shoes or your sergeant gives you Billy Hell. Will you pin on my badge and the medal?”
“I’d be proud to.” She fastened the red, white and blue emblem of the Grand Army of the Republic and the Civil War medal on his chest while he stood sternly erect. He inspected them with satisfaction in the wavering kitchen mirror.
“Shall we go out and pick a snowball now?”
“Not yet,” she answered. “We want it to be fresh. You don’t go to the schools until nine, you know.” Deep Valley’s “old soldiers” always visited the schools on Decoration Day morning. Then the schools, shops and offices closed, and at one-thirty came the parade.
Emily poured the coffee and dished out bowls of steaming oatmeal while her grandfather, removing the forage cap reluctantly, sat down at the kitchen table. The heat from the range felt comfortable for there was a layer of ice in the air.
“Remember how hot it was last year?” she asked.
“I certainly do. You never can tell about May.”
“I’m glad it’s going to be cool for the marching. You won’t walk very far, though, will you, Grandpa?”
He chuckled. “Just far enough to show the Mayor there’s life in us old boys yet.”
When she started to wash the dishes, he said, “Emmy! It’s eight o’clock now. Oughtn’t we to pick a snowball?”
“In a minute,” she answered. But he couldn’t wait. While she worked she could see him from a window, walking around the snowball bush in eager antic
ipation. Smiling, she ran out to join him.
The sun was higher now, glittering on the trees with their small new leaves, on the dewy grass. Emily, too, circled the bush, inspecting the luscious white clumps.
“Snowball is too cold a name for them,” she said. Selecting the finest, she cut it carefully. He looked stern again while she pinned it on his chest.
“Now! You look very nice!”
“I’ll go to the gate and wait for the auto.”
“Tell them about Gettysburg in your very best style.”
“By Jingo, I will!” he answered happily.
Emily put the chicken to stew and made a pudding. While she worked she thought about the “old soldiers” coming to the schools when she was a child. Judge Hodges used to tell them about Nashville, and old Cap’ Klein about fighting the Sioux. How proud she had been of her grandfather!
Taking a dust cloth she went into the parlor. This was almost as her grandmother had left it. Emily was a little ashamed of its old-fashioned look, but she thought that her grandfather was too old for change.
Enlarged photographs hung on the walls along with a hair wreath and a picture showing a weeping widow at a tombstone. Wax flowers bloomed under a glass dome. There were a black walnut sofa and chairs, upholstered in horsehair; a secretary with books behind glass; and an old, square, yellow-keyed piano.
She set the table with a linen cloth and her grandmother’s Haviland china, and walking down to the slough picked some blue flags with their sword-shaped leaves for the center of the table.
Before the chicken was tender, her grandfather came in, glowing. Loosening his collar, he sank down in his chair and told her about his success at the schools. He went reluctantly, at her urging, to lie down, and when she called him for dinner he bounced up with bright eyes. While they ate he told her about his triumphs again.
His snowball was showering small flowerets now, and Emily went out and picked another. She pinned it on his coat.
“Now you rest while you wait for the Judge.”
“Rest! Rest! We didn’t get much rest marching to Gettysburg.”
“I know. But today you’re just marching to Lincoln Park. And see that you don’t go any farther!” They both laughed. “Here’s Judge Hodges now,” she added, as the doorbell jingled.
In contrast to her grandfather, the Judge was tall and bony with a white beard flowing to his waist. He, too, wore the dapper forage cap and a snowball on his chest.
“I’ve been telling Grandpa not to walk too far,” said Emily.
“Just what my daughter has been nagging me about!”
“I told her we marched thirty-three miles to get to Gettysburg.”
“You and your Gettysburg! At Nashville, we didn’t waste time walking. We were too busy fighting.”
Squabbling and joking, the two old men went out the front door. But halfway down the ragged path, they stopped and came back. Judge Hodges put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a package.
“My daughter picked it out for me,” he said.
“Why, Judge Hodges!” Emily unwrapped it, smiling, and drew out a souvenir spoon. There was a replica of the Deep Valley High School on the handle with Class of 1912 engraved below. “I’ll keep this always! How kind of you!”
“Well…!” He smoothed his long beard affectionately as one might stroke the mane of a favorite horse. “I’ve known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. And I understand that you’re one of the top honor students, have an oration to give.”
“I’ve heard her recite it,” Grandpa Webster put in proudly. “It’s about…what is it about now, Emmy?”
“Jane Addams.”
“That’s right. Jane Addams. It’s fine, too.”
“I don’t see how Cy Webster could have such a smart granddaughter,” said the Judge, giving his old comrade an affectionate whack. They hooked arms and started down the ragged path again, looking somehow younger in their excited gaiety.
Emily put the spoon with her other presents and hurried up to her room. She poured water from a pitcher into a bowl and washed, looking at a splasher that showed two frogs fishing. Except for a Deep Valley High School pennant, everything in the little slant-roofed bedroom was old. There was a black walnut bureau with a marble top. The bed was a towering, heavily carved affair, and her grandmother had embroidered the pillow shams. One showed a setting sun and one showed a rising sun. “Early to Bed” and “Early to Rise,” they said.
Emily braided her hair freshly and turned it up with a white ribbon. She put on a white waist and skirt, pinned on a sailor hat and picked up her jacket, pulling a small flag into the buttonhole.
The crowd was three deep along the sidewalks of Front Street. Horses were hitched on the side streets and a mounted policeman was trying to keep the roadway clear. Deep Valley people and country folk alike were dressed in their Sunday best. She saw a group of Syrians; the men in thick black suits, the women with bright scarves over their heads.
Children were waving starchy new flags, and they were all wearing colored caps. There was an epidemic of colored caps, she noticed—some red, some white, some blue.
She stopped in front of Ray’s shoe store. (The Ray family had moved away; Mr. Ray’s shoe store was someone else’s now, but people still called it Ray’s.) She was looking for a break in the crowd when Jerry Sibley called her.
“Here, Emily! You can squeeze in with us.” He was standing at the curb with Bobby and another boy, about Bobby’s age but larger, husky and ruddy blond. After a moment Emily recognized him. He was Bobby Cobb, the nephew of Deep Valley’s loved piano teacher.
Both Bobbys were wearing their best suits and ties. Their faces shone from soap and water and their hair was slicked down—under colored caps, of course. Bobby Sibley’s was red and Bobby Cobb’s was blue.
“What are you all wearing caps for?” Emily asked.
“Don’t you know?” answered Bobby Sibley. “We’re going to have a Living Flag up at the exercises. Our caps are different colors, and when we all line up, they make a flag. The red is the most important.”
“It is not!” yelled Bobby Cobb.
“It is so!”
“It isn’t!”
“Who says it isn’t?”
“The champion wrestler of the fifth grade!” Bobby Cobb shouted and fell upon his companion.
“Cut it out kids!” Jerry said.
Not only children were getting restless. Anticipation fluttered like the flags. When the policeman went by now, he was greeted with, “When’s the parade going to start?” At last, far down the street, “The Stars and Stripes Forever” sounded in brassy exultation.
A decorated automobile led the parade.
“It used to be a white horse, with the head of the G.A.R. riding on it,” Emily said. The car was driven by the President of the Automobile Club, and carried the Mayor, the Methodist Minister and a Congressman who kept lifting his high silk hat. Everyone cheered, for the music of the approaching band had already stirred their hearts.
It was the policemen’s band. A big flag came at the front, and Jerry snatched off his cap, nudging his brother who snatched off his and nudged Bobby Cobb. Emily stood very still and straightened her shoulders.
The Drum Major was whirling his baton in deft white-gloved fingers. Behind him came the trombones, sliding in and out. Then came the baritones, the French horns and the tubas, the jubilant trumpets, the field drums and the bass drums, the saxophones and clarinets.
The uniformed policemen marched by, thumping their big feet heavily on the pavement. The firemen followed, clinging to their gleaming trucks. The first band had stopped playing, but another could be heard. No, it wasn’t a band! This was the thin ghostly music of the fife and drum.
“When Johnny comes marching home again,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We’ll give him a hearty welcome then,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The men will cheer, the boys will shout…”
A tremendous
emotional roar of welcome almost drowned out the sprightly tune. For the “old soldiers” were coming, Deep Valley’s survivors of the now historic Civil War, six old men in blue uniforms with badges and bulging snowball clumps.
They were marching in pairs. They didn’t keep time very well. One walked with a cane. But they all held themselves with military stiffness. No beard equaled Judge Hodges’ beard. There were flourishing mustaches, though, and a goatee, and old Cap’ Klein’s chin whiskers. Cyrus Webster was clean shaven but his heavy eyebrows bristled with martial grimness.
Emily’s eyes blurred. “They’re only marching a few blocks,” she said, addressing Jerry, but speaking to reassure herself. She was glad to observe an automobile, ready to receive them, riding slowly just behind.
“Those old fellows get feebler every year…and fewer,” Jerry said. He stopped, remembering that her grandfather was among the marchers.
Yes, Emily thought, they got feebler and fewer. And so did the old ladies of the Women’s Relief Corps who were passing now in another automobile, brave in their new bonnets. Her grandmother used to ride with them! She was gone now. And the white horse of memory was replaced by an automobile. Yet Decoration Day was always the same.
The high school band, playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” escorted the veterans of the Spanish-American War. They were still youngish and debonair. The National Guard was younger still, marching with zest, greeted with familiar shouts. At the end, boys and girls swarmed into the street.
“Look for us in the Living Flag!” Bobby Sibley called.
Emily hurried up to little pie-shaped Lincoln Park where the statue of a Union soldier surmounted a sparkling fountain. Folding chairs had been set up beneath a giant elm. She was glad to see her grandfather, looking flushed and happy, sitting next to Judge Hodges, and she watched him fondly as the program took its familiar way: “The Star-Spangled Banner”; the invocation; the reading of General Logan’s orders; “Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp Ground,” which always made her feel lonely; and Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address,” which never failed to stir her. The Congressman, in Emily’s opinion, said too much about the differences between President Taft and ex-President Roosevelt and not enough about the G.A.R. At the end came “America,” and the Bobbys grinned at her out of a Living Flag.