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- CHAPTER XVII
But there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil Saturday
afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly’s family, were being put into
mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed
the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience.
The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked
little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to
the children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them
up.
In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted
schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing
there to comfort her. She soliloquized:
“Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven’t got
anything now to remember him by.” And she choked back a little sob.
Presently she stopped, and said to herself:
“It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn’t say
that—I wouldn’t say it for the whole world. But he’s gone now; I’ll
never, never, never see him any more.”
This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling
down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls—playmates of Tom’s
and Joe’s—came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking
in reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so the last time they saw
him, and how Joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful
prophecy, as they could easily see now!)—and each speaker pointed out
the exact spot where the lost lads stood at the time, and then added
something like “and I was a-standing just so—just as I am now, and as if
you was him—I was as close as that—and he smiled, just this way—and then
something seemed to go all over me, like—awful, you know—and I never
thought what it meant, of course, but I can see now!”
Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and
many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or
less tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided
who _did_ see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them,
the lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance,
and were gaped at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had
no other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the
remembrance:
“Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once.”
But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that,
and so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered away,
still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell
began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still
Sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush
that lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment
in the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there
was no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses
as the women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None
could remember when the little church had been so full before. There
was finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly
entered, followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all in
deep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose
reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew.
There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled
sobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving
hymn was sung, and the text followed: “I am the Resurrection and the
Life.”
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