g brought fair weather.
It was a busy morning on the farms--like any other; but long before
noon the teams of horses and oxen were seen going home from work in
the fields, and everybody got ready in haste for the great event of
the afternoon. It was so seldom that any occasion roused public
interest in Barlow that there was an unexpected response, and the
green before the old white meeting-house was covered with country
wagons and groups of people, whole families together, who had come on
foot. The old soldiers were to meet in the church; at half past one
the procession was to start, and on its return the minister was to
make an address in the old burying-ground. John Stover had been first
lieutenant in the war, so he was made captain of the day. A man from
the next town had offered to drum for them, and Martin Tighe's proud
boy was present with his fife. He had a great longing--strange enough
in that peaceful, sheep-raising neighborhood--to go into the army; but
he and his elder brother were the mainstay of their crippled father,
and he could not be spared from the large household until a younger
brother could take his place; so that all his fire and military zeal
went for the present into martial tunes, and the fife was a
safety-valve for his enthusiasm.

The army men were used to seeing each other; everybody knew everybody
in the little country town of Barlow; but when one comrade after
another appeared in what remained of his accoutrements, they felt the
day to be greater than they had planned, and the simple ceremony
proved more solemn than any one expected. They could make no use of
their every-day jokes and friendly greetings. Their old blue coats
and tarnished army caps looked faded and antiquated enough. One of
the men had nothing left but his rusty canteen and rifle; but these he
carried like sacred emblems. He had worn out all his army clothes long
ago, because he was too poor when he was discharged to buy any others.

When the door of the church opened, the veterans were not abashed by
the size and silence of the crowd. They came walking two by two down
the steps, and took their places in line as if there were nobody
looking on. Their brief evolutions were like a mystic rite. The two
lame men refused to do anything but march as best they could; but poor
Martin Tighe, more disabled than they, was brought out and lifted into
Henry Merrill's best wagon, where he sat up, straight and soldierly,
with his boy fo