It was so thick I could scarcely
breathe through it, but the more I sputtered the more it pleased the
children. They said I seemed to be really crying and sobbing under my
veil, and that I was acting my part of chief mourner beautifully.
All the children of the neighbourhood came to the funeral. There was a
band to lead the procession; a band of three boys, playing on a French
harp, a jew's-harp, and a drum. Johnny Grey's Newfoundland dog was
hitched to the little wagon that held Matches's coffin. Phil drove,
sitting up solemnly in his father's best high silk hat with its band
of crape. It was much too large for his head, and slipped down over
his curls until the brim rested on the tips of his ears. It was
serious business for Phil. His eyes were red and his dirty face
streaked with tears. He had grown to be very fond of Matches.
Elsie and I followed on a tricycle. She had borrowed an old-fashioned
scoop bonnet and a black silk apron from one of the neighbours. I sat
beside her, feeling very hot and uncomfortable in the crape veil in
which I was pinned. The others walked behind us, two by two, in a long
procession. We went five times around the circle, while Sim
Williams, on the wood-shed roof, tolled a big auction bell, which he
had borrowed for the occasion.
[Illustration: MATCHES'S FUNERAL.]
When it was all over and the little mound over Matches's grave had
been covered with sod, the children were loath to stop playing
funeral.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31