the village watch-tower-第15章

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of　use；　I　think　it　means　doing　everything　as　it　is　done　in　heaven；

and　that　anybody　who　wants　to　make　a　perfect　violin　must

keep　his　eye　open　to　all　the　beautiful　things　God　has　made；

and　his　ear　open　to　all　the　music　he　has　put　into　the　world；

and　then　never　let　his　hands　touch　a　piece　of　work　that　is　crooked

or　straggling　or　false；　till；　after　years　and　years　of　rightness；

they　are　fit　to　make　a　violin　like　the　squire's；　a　violin　that　can

say　everything；　a　violin　that　an　angel　wouldn't　be　ashamed

to　play　on。〃



Do　these　words　seem　likely　ones　to　fall　from　the　lips

of　a　lad　who　had　been　at　the　tail　of　his　class　ever　since　his

primer　days？　　Well；　Anthony　was　seventeen　now；　and　he　was

〃educated；〃　in　spite　of　sorry　recitations；educated；　the　Lord

knows　how！　　Yes；　in　point　of　fact　the　Lord　does　know　how！

He　knows　how　the　drill　and　pressure　of　the　daily　task；

still　more　the　presence　of　the　high　ideal；　the　inspiration

working　from　within；　how　these　educate　us。



The　blind　Anthony　Croft　sitting　in　the　kitchen　doorway　had

seemingly　missed　the　heights　of　life　he　might　have　trod；　and　had　walked

his　close　on　fifty　years　through　level　meadows　of　mediocrity；　a　witch

in　every　finger…tip　waiting　to　be　set　to　work；　head　among　the　clouds；

feet　stumbling；　eyes　and　ears　open　to　hear　God's　secret　thought；

seeing　and　hearing　it；　too；　but　lacking　force　to　speak　it　forth　again；

for　while　imperious　genius　surmounts　all　obstacles；　brushes　laws　and

formulas　from　its　horizon；　and　with　its　own　free　soul　sees　its　〃path

and　the　outlets　of　the　sky；〃　potential　genius　forever　needs　an　angel

of　deliverance　to　set　it　free。



Poor　Anthony　Croft；　or　blessed　Anthony　Croft；　I　know　not　which；

God　knows！　　Poor　he　certainly　was；　yet　blessed　after　all。

〃One　thing　I　do；〃　said　Paul。　　〃One　thing　I　do；〃　said　Anthony。

He　was　not　able　to　realize　his　ideals；　but　he　had　the　〃angel　aim〃

by　which　he　idealized　his　reals。



O　waiting　heart　of　God！　how　soon　would　thy　kingdom

come　if　we　all　did　our　allotted　tasks；　humble　or　splendid；

in　this　consecrated　fashion！



III。





〃Therein　I　hear　the　Parcae　reel

The　threads　of　man　at　their　humming　wheel；

The　threads　of　life　and　power　and　pain；

So　sweet　and　mournful　falls　the　strain。〃



Emerson's　_Harp。_





Old　Mrs。　Butterfield　had　had　her　third　stroke　of　paralysis；

and　died　of　a　Sunday　night。　　She　was　all　alone　in　her　little

cottage　on　the　river　bank；　with　no　neighbor　nearer

than　Croft's；　and　nobody　there　but　a　blind　man　and　a　small　boy。

Everybody　had　told　her　it　was　foolish　to　live　alone　in　a　house

on　the　river　road；　and　everybody　was　pleased　in　a　discreet

and　chastened　fashion　of　course；　that　it　had　turned　out　exactly

as　they　had　predicted。



Aunt　Mehitable　Tarbox　was　walking　up　to　Milliken's　Mills；

with　her　little　black　reticule　hanging　over　her　arm；

and　noticing　that　there　was　no　smoke　coming　out　of　the　chimney；

and　that　the　hens　were　gathered　about　the　kitchen　door　clamoring

for　their　breakfast；　she　thought　it　best　to　stop　and　knock。

No　response　followed　the　repeated　blows　from　her　hard　knuckles。

She　then　tapped　smartly　on　Mrs。　Butterfield's　bedroom　window

with　her　thimble　finger。　　This　proving　of　no　avail；　she　was

obliged　to　pry　open　the　kitchen　shutter；　split　open　a　mosquito

netting　with　her　shears；　and　crawl　into　the　house　over　the　sink。

This　was　a　considerable　feat　for　a　somewhat　rheumatic　elderly　lady；

but　this　one　never　grudged　trouble　when　she　wanted　to　find

out　anything。



When　she　discovered　that　her　premonitions　were　correct；

and　that　old　Mrs。　Butterfield　was　indeed　dead；　her　grief

at　losing　a　pleasant　acquaintance　was　largely　mitigated

by　her　sense　of　importance　at　being　first　on　the　spot；

and　chosen　by　Providence　to　take　command　of　the　situation。

There　were　no　relations　in　the　village；　there　was　no　woman

neighbor　within　a　mile：　　it　was　therefore　her　obvious　Christian

duty　not　only　to　take　charge　of　the　remains；　but　to　conduct

such　a　funeral　as　the　remains　would　have　wished　for　herself。



The　fortunate　Vice…President　suddenly　called　upon　by　destiny

to　guide　the　ship　of　state；　the　general　who　sees　a　possible

Victoria　Cross　in　a　hazardous　engagement；　can　have　a　faint

conception　of　aunt　Hitty's　feeling　on　this　momentous　occasion。

Funerals　were　the　very　breath　of　her　life。　　There　was　no　ceremony；

either　of　public　or　private　import；　that；　to　her　mind；

approached　a　funeral　in　real　satisfying　interest。

Yet；　with　distinct　talent　in　this　direction；　she　had　always

been　〃cabined；　cribbed；　confined〃　within　hopeless　limitations。

She　had　assisted　in　a　secondary　capacity　at　funerals　in　the　families

of　other　people；　but　she　would　have　reveled　in　personally

conducted　ones。　　The　members　of　her　own　family　stubbornly

refused　to　die；　however；　even　the　distant　connections　living

on　and　on　to　a　ridiculous　old　age；　and　if　they　ever　did　die；

by　reason　of　a　falling　roof；　shipwreck；　or　conflagration；

they　generally　died　in　Texas　or　Iowa；　or　some　remote　State　where

aunt　Hitty　could　not　follow　the　hearse　in　the　first　carriage。

This　blighted　ambition　was　a　heart　sorrow　of　so　deep　and　sacred

a　character　that　she　did　not　even　confess　it　to　〃Si；〃　as　her

appendage　of　a　husband　was　called。



Now　at　last　her　chance　for　planning　a　funeral　had　come。

Mrs。　Butterfield　had　no　kith　or　kin　save　her　niece；　Lyddy　Ann；

who　lived　in　Andover；　or　Lawrence；　or　Haverhill　Massachusetts；

aunt　Hitty　couldn't　remember　which；　and　hoped　nobody　else　could。

The　niece　would　be　sent　for　when　they　found　out　where　she　lived；

meanwhile　the　funeral　could　not　be　put　off。



She　glanced　round　the　house　preparatory　to　locking　it

up　and　starting　to　notify　Anthony　Croft。　　She　would　just　run

over　and　talk　to　him　about　ordering　the　coffin；　then　she　could

attend　to　all　other　necessary　preliminaries　herself。

The　remains　had　been　well…to…do；　and　there　was　no　occasion　for

sordid　economy；　so　aunt　Hitty　determined　in　her　own　mind　to　have

the　latest　fashion　in　everything；　including　a　silver　coffin　plate。

The　Butterfield　coffin　plates　were　a　thing　to　be　proud　of。

They　had　been　sacredly　preserved　for　years　and　years；　and　the

entire　collectionnumbering　nineteen　in　all　had　been　framed；

and　adorned　the　walls　of　the　deceased　lady's　best　room。

They　were　not　of　solid　silver；　it　is　true；　but　even　so　it　was　a

matter　of　distinction　to　have　belonged　to　a　family　that　could

afford　to　have　nineteen　coffin　plates　of　any　sort。



Aunt　Hitty　planned　certain　dramatic　details　as　she

walked　town　the　road　to　Croft's。　It　came　to　her　in　a　burst

of　inspiration　that　she　would　have　two　ministers：　　one　for

the　long　prayer；　and　one　for　the　short　prayer　and　the　remarks。

She　hoped　that　Elder　Weeks　would　be　adequate　in　the　latter

direction。　　She　knew　she　couldn't　for　the　life　of　her　think

of　anything　interesting　about　Mrs。　Butterfield；　save　that　she

possessed　nineteen　coffin　plates；　and　brought　her　hens　to

Edgewood　every　summer　for　their　health；　but　she　had　heard　Elder

Weeks　make　a　moving　discourse　out　of　less　than　that。

To　be　sure；　he　needed　priming；　but　she　was　equal　to　that。

There　was　Ivory　Brown's　funeral：　　how　would　that　have　gone　on

if　it　hadn't　been　for　her？　　Wasn't　the　elder　ten　minutes　late；

and　what　would　his　remarks　have　amounted　to　without　her　suggestions？

You　might　almost　say　she　was　the　author　of　the　discourse；

for　she　gave　him　all　the　appropriate　ideas。　　As　she　had　helped　him

out　of　the　wagon　she　had　said：　　〃Are　you　prepared？　　I　thought　not；

but　there's　no　time　to　lose。　　Remember　there　are　aged　parents；

two　brothers　living；　one　railroading　in　Spokane　Falls；

the　other　clerking　in　Washington；　D。　C。　Don't　mention

the　Universalists；there's　ben　two　in　the　fam'ly；　nor　insanity；

there　's　ben　one　o'　them。　　The　girl　in　the　corner　by　the　clock

is　the　one　that　the　remains　has　been　keeping　comp'ny　with。

If　you　can　make　some　genteel　allusions　to　her；　it'll　be　much

appreciated　by　his　folks。〃



As　to　the　long　prayer；　she　knew　that　the　Rev。　Mr。　Ford　could　be　relied

on　to　pray　until　aunt　Becky　Burnham　should　twitch　him　by　the　coat　tails。

She　had　done　it　more　than　once。　　She　had　also；　on　one　occasion；

got　up　and　straightened　his　ministerial　neckerchief；　which　he　had　gradually

〃prayed〃　around　his　saintly　neck　until　it　was　behind　the　right　ear。



These　plans　proved　so　fascinating　to　aunt　Hitty　that　she　walked

quite　half　a　mile　beyond　Croft's；　and　was　obliged　to　retrace　her　steps。

She　conceived　bands　of　black　alpaca　for　the　sleeves　and　hats

of　the　pallbearers；　and　a　festoon　of　the　same　over　the　front　gate；

if　there　should　be　any　left　over。　　She　planned　the　singing　by　the　choir。

There　had　been　no　real　choir…singing　at　any　funeral　in　Edgewood　since

the　Rev。　Joshua　Beckwith　had　died。　　She　would　ask　them　to　open　with





Rebel　mourner；　cease　your　weepin'。

You　too　must　die。



This　was　a　favorite　funeral　hymn。　　The　only　difficulty

would　be　in　keeping　aunt　Becky　Burnham　from　pitching　it

in　a　key　where　nobody　but　a　soprano　skylark；　accustomed　to

warble　at　a　great　height；　could　possibly　sing　it。

It　was　generally　given　at　the　grave；　when　Elder　Weeks　officiated；

but　it　never　satisfied　aunt　Hitty；　because　the　good　elder　always

looked　so　unpicturesque　when　he　threw　a　red　bandanna　handkerchief

over　his　head　before　beginning　the　twenty…seven　verses。

After　the　long　prayer；　she　would　have　Almira　Berry　give

for　a　solo





This　gro…o…oanin'　world　's　too　dark　and

dre…e…ar　for　the　saints'　e　…　ter　…　nal　rest；



This　hymn；　if　it　did　not　wholly　reconcile　one　to　death；

enabled　one　to　look　upon　life　with　sufficient　solemnity。

It　was　a　thousand　pities；　she　thought；　that　the　old　hearse　was

so　shabby　and　rickety；　and　that　Gooly　Eldridge；　who　drove　it；

would　insist　on　wearing　a　faded　peach…blow　overcoat。

It　was　exasperating　to　think　of　the　public　spirit　at　Egypt；

and　contrast　it　with　the　state　of　things　at　Pleasant　River。

In　Egypt　they　had　sold　the　old　hearse　house　for　a　sausage　shop；

and　now　they　were　having　hearse　sociables　every　month

to　raise　money　for　a　new　one。



All　these　details　flew　through　aunt　Hitty's　mind　in

fascinating　procession。　　There　shouldn't　be　〃a　hitch〃　anywhere。

There　had　been　a　hitch　at　her　last　funeral；　but　she　had　been

only　an　assistant　there。　　Matt　Henderson　had　been　struck

by　lightning　at　the　foot　of　Squire　Bean's　old　nooning　tree；

and　certain　circumstances　combined　to　make　the　funeral　one

of　unusual　interest；　so　much　so　that　fat　old　Mrs。　Potter

from　Deerwander　created　a　sensation　at　the　cemetery。

She　was　so　anxious　to　get　where　she　could　see　everything

to　the　best　advantage　that　she　crowded　too　near　the　bier；

stepped　on　the　sliding　earth；　and　pitched　into　the　grave。

As　she　weighed　over　two　hundred　pounds；　and　was　in　a　position

of　some　disadvantage；　it　took　five　men　to　extricate　her　from

the　dilemma；　and　the　operation　made　a　long　and　somewhat

awkward　break　in　the　re