“The minister says to me this afternoon that he was goin’ to arrange an’ have some talks in the meetin’-house next winter, an’ have some of us tell where we was in the South; an’ one night ’twill be about camp life, an’ one about the long marches, an’ then about the battles,—­that would take some time,—­an’ tell all we could about the boys that was killed, an’ their record, so they wouldn’t be forgot.  He said some of the folks must have the letters we wrote home from the front, an’ we could make out quite a history of us.  I call Elder Dallas a very smart man; he’d planned it all out a’ready, for the benefit o’ the young folks, he said,” announced Henry Merrill, in a tone of approval.

“I s’pose there ain’t none of us but could add a little somethin’,” answered John Stover modestly. “’Twould re’lly learn the young folks a good deal.  I should be scared numb to try an’ speak from the pulpit.  That ain’t what the Elder means, is it?  Now I was one that had a good chance to see somethin’ o’ Washin’ton.  I shook hands with President Lincoln, an’ I always think I’m worth lookin’ at for that, if I ain’t for nothin’ else.  ‘Twas that time I was just out o’ hospit’l, an’ able to crawl about some.  I’ve often told you how ‘twas I met him, an’ he stopped an’ shook hands an’ asked where I’d been at the front an’ how I was gettin’ along with my hurts.  Well, we’ll see how ’tis when winter comes.  I never thought I had no gift for public speakin’, ’less ‘twas for drivin’ cattle or pollin’ the house town-meetin’ days.  Here!  I’ve got somethin’ in mind.  You needn’t speak about it if I tell it to ye,” he added suddenly.  “You know all them han’some flowers that was laid on to Eb Munson’s grave an’ Tighe’s?  I mistrusted you thought the same thing I did by the way you looked.  They come from Marthy Down’s front yard.  My woman told me when we got home that she knew ’em in a minute; there wa’n’t nobody in town had that kind o’ red flowers but her.  She must ha’ kind o’ harked back to the days when she was Marthy Peck.  She must have come over with ’em after dark, or else dreadful early in the mornin’.”

Henry Merrill cleared his throat.  “There ain’t nothin’ half-way ’bout Mis’ Down,” he said.  “I wouldn’t ha’ spoken ’bout this ’less you had led right on to it; but I overtook her when I was gittin’ towards home this afternoon, an’ I see by her looks she was worked up a good deal; but we talked about how well things had gone off, an’ she wanted to know what expenses we’d been put to, an’ I told her; and she said she’d give five dollars any day I’d stop in for it.  An’ then she spoke right out.  ‘I’m alone in the world,’ says she, ‘and I’ve got somethin’ to do with, an’ I’d like to have a plain stone put up to Eb Munson’s grave, with the number of his rigiment on it, an’ I’ll pay the bill.  ‘Tain’t out o’ Mr. Down’s money,’ she says; ‘’tis mine, an’ I want you to see to it.’  I said I would, but we’d made a plot to git some o’ them soldiers’ headstones that’s provided by the government.  ’Twas a shame it had been overlooked so long.  ‘No,’ says she; ‘I’m goin’ to pay for Eb’s myself.’  An’ I told her there wouldn’t be no objection.  Don’t ary one o’ you speak about it.  ’Twouldn’t be fair.  She was real well-appearin’.  I never felt to respect Marthy so before.”