So men's hearts
were stirred, they knew not why, when they heard the shrill fife and
the incessant drum along the quiet Barlow road, and saw the handful of
old soldiers marching by. Nobody thought of them as familiar men and
neighbors alone,--they were a part of that army which had saved its
country. They had taken their lives in their hands and gone out to
fight for their country, plain John Stover and Jesse Dean and the
rest. No matter if every other day in the year they counted for little
or much, whether they were lame-footed and lagging, whether their
farms were of poor soil or rich.
The little troop went in slender line along the road; the crowded
country wagons and all the people who went afoot followed Martin
Tighe's wagon as if it were a great gathering at a country funeral.
The route was short, and the long, straggling line marched slowly; it
could go no faster than the lame men could walk.
In one of the houses by the roadside an old woman sat by a window, in
an old-fashioned black gown, and clean white cap with a prim border
which bound her thin, sharp features closely. She had been for a long
time looking out eagerly over the snowberry and cinnamon-rose bushes;
her face was pressed close to the pane, and presently she caught sight
of the great flag as it came down the road.
"Let me see 'em! I've got to see 'em go by!" she pleaded, trying to
rise from her chair alone when she heard the fife, and the women
helped her to the door, and held her so that she could stand and wait.
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