THE GREAT DAY.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2097, 25 January 1908, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE GREAT DAY.

(By Elsie Singmaster in “Harper’s.”) .Old Billy Glide strode slowly into die kitchen, where his wife bent over the stove. Just inside the door he stopped, and chewed meditatively upon the toothpick in his mouth. His wife turned presently to look at him. “What are you grinning at?” she isked, pleasantly. Billy did not answer. Instead he sat down in his arm-chair and lifted his feet to the window-sill. “Won’t you speak, or can’t you?” I demanded Mrs Glide. I When he still did not respond, she gravely pushed her frying-pan to the back of the stove, and went toward the door. Before her hand touched lie latch, however, Billy came to him- I self. I

“Abbio!” lie said. “I can’t stop now,” answered Mrs Glide. “I gave you your chance to tell what you got to toll. Now you can wait till I come homo.” “lon’ll be sorry.” Mrs Gude looked back, tier husband still grinned. “You’re crazy,” she said, with conviction, and went out. An instant later she reopened the door. Billy was executing a pas seal in the middle of the floor. “Are you crazy?” she demanded, in affright. Billy paused long enough to wink at her. “You better go do your errand, Abbie.”

“What is the matter?” Then Billy’s news refused longer to bo retained. “There’s a great day cornin’,’’-'ho said;- solemnly. “The President of tho United States is coinin’ here oil Decoration Day to see the battlefield.”

“What of that?” said'Ab.b«bscornfully. '“lt won’t' do you no good. He’ll come an the morning in an automobile, an’ lie’ll scoot round the Tf- f field with .Jakie Barsinger ‘a-settm’ on the step tollin’ lies, an’ you can sco him go by.” “See him go by nothin’,” said Billy. “That’s where you’re left. He’s coinin’ in the mornin’ on a special train, an’ lie’s goin’ to bo driven round the field, an’ he’s goin’ to make a speech at the nostrum” —thus did Billy choose to pronounce rostrum—“an’—” “And Jakie Barsinger will drive him over tho field and to the nostrum, and you can sit and look on.” “That’s where you’re left again,” mocked Billy. “I, bein’ the oldest guide, ail’ the best knowed, an’ havin’ held Mr Lincoln by the hand in ’G3, . an’ 'havin’ driven all the other big guns what come here till automobiles an’ Jakie Barsinger come in, lam selected to do the drivin’ on the great day.” Mrs Gude sat down heavily on a chair near the door “Who done it-, Billy?” “I don’t know who done it,” Billy answered. “An’ I don’t care. Some ol the galoots had a littlo common sense for once.” “Why did they do it?” gasped Mrs Gude. “Why?” repeated Billy. “Why? Because when you get people to talk about a battle, it’s better to have some one what saw the battle, an’ not some one what was inlongclothes. I guess they were afraid Jakie might tell something wrong. You can’t fool this President.” “I mean, what made ’em change now?” went on Abbie. “They knew this long time that Jakie Barsinger was dumb.” “I don’t know, an’ I don’t cars. I only know that I’m goin’ to drive the President. I heard Lines’,i ■ make his speech in ’63, ail’ I drove Everett an’ Sickles an’ Howard an’ Curtin, and this President’s father, an’ then ” —Billy’s voice shook—“tuea ■ they said I was gettin’ old, an’ Jaklo Barsinger an’ all the chaps get down at the station an’ yell an’ howl like Piute Indians, an* they get the Custom, an ’the hotels tell the people I had an accident with an automobile. 1 Automobiles he dangblastedT” ilrs Guide laid a tender hand on ' his shoulder. “Don’t you cry,” she said. Billy dashed the tears from his ; eyes.

“1 ain’t ervin’. You go on with your errand.” Mrs Gude put on her sun bonnet again. She had no errand, but it would not do to admit it. “Not if you’re goin’ to hop rouud like a loony.” “I’m safe for to-day, I guess. Besides, my legs is give out.” Left alone. Billy rubbed one leg, then the other. “G’laiig there,” he said, presently, his hands lifting a pair of imaginary reins, “Ml* President,, hidden there among the trees an’ hushes waited ;■ the foe; here—” Before he finished he was asleep. He was almost seventy years old, and excitement wearied him. For forty years he had shown visitors over the battle-field. At first his old horse had picked liis way carefully along the old lanes and across the fields; of late, however, his handsome grays trotted over fine avenues. The horses knew the route of travel as thoroughly as did their master. They drew up before the National Monument, on the turn or the Bloody Angle, and at the summit of Little Round Top without the least- guidance. • “There ain’t a stone or a bush I don’t know; there ain’t a tree or/a. fence post.” Presently, however, came -a ture which neither • they nor Billy knew. It dashed upon them one day with infernal tooting on the steep curve of Culp’s Hill, and neither ■they nor Billy was He sat easily in his seat, the lines loose in liis hands, while he described the charge of tho Louisiana Tigers. “From yonder they came,” heu said. “Up here, a-creepin’ through the bushes, an’ then- .a-dashin’, an’ down on ’em came—” And then Billy know no more. The automobile was upon them; there was a crash as the horses whirled aside into the underbrush, another as the carriage turned turtle, then *</ succession of shrieks. No one was seriously hurt, however, but Billy himself.' AVlien, weeks later, he wont back to his old post beside the station platform, where the guides waited the arrival of trains, Jakie Barsinger had liis place, and Jakie would not move. He was of a new generation of guides, who made up in volubility what they lacked in knowledge.

I For weeks Billy continued to drive to the station. He had enlisted the I services of a visiting chauffeur, and I In’s horses were now accustomed to I automobiles. I “I tamed ’em,” lie said to Abbie. I“I drove cm up to it, an’ round I it, an’ past it. An’ ho snorted itj I an’ tooted it, an’ brought it at ’em lin front an’ behind. They’re as I calin as pigeons.” I Nevertheless, trade did not come I back. Jakio Barsinger had become 1 the recognised guide for the guests I at the Palace, and John Harris for I those at the Keystone, and it was always from the hotels that- the best patronage came. “Jakio Barsinger took the (Secretary of A) ar round the other day | the old man would say, tearfully, to Ins wife, “an’ lie made a fool of himself. Ho. don’t know a brigade from a company. An’ he grinned at mo—he grinned at me!” Abbie did her best to comfort him. “Perhaps some of the old once vhat used to have you will conio Jj ick.

“An’ if they do,” said Billy, “the I clerk at the Palace ’ll tell ’em I am t in the business, or I was in a, accident, or that I’m dead. J wouldn’t, put it past ’em to tell ’em I’m dead.” [ Bobbed of the occupation of his ife, which was also his passion, Billy giew rapidly old. Abbie listened in; (listless *as., sitting alone, Jie declaim--ed his old speeches. “Here on the right they fought, with clubbed' muskets. Here—” Often he did not finish, but dozed; u earily off. There were times when; it seemed that ho could not long survivo. Now, however, he seemed to have, taken a new lens&knv. -lif—

_>roh or by tho stove, 110 bega: to f requent his old haunts, and lie as sinned his old proud attitude to ward 'his rivals. Mrs /7-ade did not slmro his unqua lified v'Nu-on. ‘■'Something might happen,” sin ■aid, fearfully. ‘Nothin’ could happen,” rejoin." Biliy, scornfully, “unless I died. An then I wouldn’t caro. But- 1 ho in tho Lord won’t let mo die.” Bd« said it ns though it wore a prayer, “I'm goin’ tct.set up once moro an wave my whip at ’em, with the 1 resident of the United States beside me. No back seat for him I Colone, Mott said to me, ‘He on time. Glide, the front self. An’ lie said he'd- ask questions. •Lot him ask, I said. ‘I ain’t afraid of no questions nobody can ask. No s’tistics, nor manoeuvres, nor “But- Jakie Barsinger might uo von a mean trick. “There ain’t nothin’ he can do. Mott said to me, ’Be one time. buil‘S bright an’ early.’” Then Billy s voice sank to a- whisper. “J hey re croin’ to stop the tram out at the back of the Seminary, so as-to "'fool the crowd. They’ll bo waitin in town, an’ wo’ll be off an’ away An.’ by an’ bv we’ll meet Jakie with Iv load of jays. Oh, it’ll l>e it’ll bo immense 1” . Through the weeks tint intervened before the 30th of May, Abbie watched him anxiously. Kaeh day he exercised the horses, grown fat and lazy ; "Sell day lie went over the long account of the battle, as though he could forget what was part and p.utd of himself. His eyes grew brighter, and there was a flush on lus old cheeks. The committee of arrangements lost their fear that perhaps they had been unwise in appointing him. , , “Gudo’s just as good as ho e\e w»s ” said Colonel Mott.“lt wouldj£P'Clo to let the President get at Barsinger. If you stop him m the ° „ 1... l,n a +rt UO

middle of a speech, he has to go back to the beginning. then lie told a story which lie never grow weary. “ ‘Hero on this field lay ten thousand' dead men, interspersed with one dek-d lady.’ No; Billy Glide s The night before the 30th Abbie did not sleep. She heard Billy talking softly to himself. “lUgb-b yonder, Mr President, they creepin’ through the bushes ; right yonder-” Then ho gained heavily, and Abbie shook him awake. “I was dreanun’ about- the aid o mobile,” he said, confusedly, oh, ain’t it time to get up. At daylight he was astir, and Abb., helped him dress. His hand shoo . and his voice trembled as he sa.dg°“You' .better come to the window an ’ see me go past,” he said; then. “What you crvin’ about, Ablie.^ d“l’in afraid somethin’s goin t; happen,” sobbed tlie old woman “I’m’afraid —” “Afraid l” he mocked Bo think, too, that I’m old an’ wore u an’ no good? You’ll seel And, defiantly, lie went out. Half an hour later he drove to tu siding where the train was to stop j nWfnrm had been bill' A wooden platform nau u

beside the track, and on it stooi Colonel Mott and the rest of the com ™ “Drive hack there, Billy,” Coloiu Mott commanded. “Then " . r vdrnr.l. to you,-you come down here. i And hold on to your horses. There - . I going to he a Presidential salute. | As soon as that’s over we 11 start. i 'Hilly drew back to the side ot the road. Evidently, through some mischance, the plans for the 1 r dent’s reception had become known, ■and there was a rapidly rncreas-g crowd. On tho slope of the hill a battery of artillery, .awaited the won to fire. Billy sat straight, lus eyeoiL/liis horses’ heads, his old hand, gripping the lines. He watched with pride the marshal waving all car riages back from the road. Only he. Billy Gude, had the right to he there. He was .to drive the President. The great day had come. He chuckle-e Aloud 1 , not noticing that just had. •of the marshal stood Jakie Barsm•ger’s fine new carriage, empty save ior Jakie himself. Presently tho old man sat stm moro erect. He heard, above the noise, of the crowd, a distant whistle —that same whistle for,which; ho had .listened daily when he bail, the best place beside the station ..-platformcurve. In a moment more it would come slowly to view out of the fatal railroad cut, whose forty-ycar-oh. horrors Billy could describe so well. The fields were black now with the crowd, the gunners watched thei: captain, and slowly tho train drew in beside the bright pine platform. A. ' J °*jl!Mhe door of the last car appeared a , all and sturdy figure, and ten thou.k&SiU huzzas made the hills ring. ■’Then a thunder of guns awoke echoes which, like the terror-stricken cries ifrom tho railroad cut, had been silent forty • years. Billy, listening, shivered. The horror had not grov. n less with his repeated telling. He leaned forward now, watching ifor Colonel Mott’s uplifted hand; hi r;aw him turn, and then — From be--hind he-Ajeard a cry, and turned to look; then lie swiftly swung Ban and %sS‘--in toward the fence. A pair oi horses, maddened by the noise of tin firin’** dashed toward him. He heard women MS#™, and thought, despairing 0 f Abhio’s prophecy. Tner<would not be room for them to pass. After all, ho would not drive the President. Then ho .almost eobbeu in his relief. They were safely by. Ho laughed grimly. It was Jakie Barsinger with his fine uew carriage. Then Billy clutched the reins again. In the short glimpse lie had caugnt of Jakio Barsinger, lie did not seem frightened nor disturbed. Nor did lie .seem to make any effort to hold in. Billy stared into the

•clouil' of dust which followed him. Wliat did it mean? And as he star<cd the horses stopped, skilfullydrawn an by Jakie Barsinger’s firm hand iheside tho yellow platform. The cloud of dust thinned a little, ami Billysaw plainly now. Into the frontseat of the tourist’s carriage, beside Jakie Barsinger himself, climbed t.ic President of the United States. Bil.y rosc in his swat. “Colonel Mott!” he called, frantically. “Coloncd JVlotfc! But no one heeded. If any one heard, -they thought it was but another cheer. Tlie crowd sw armed Ahj’jrn to the road now, shouting, HuzzSfing, here and there a man or a

.girl pausing to steady a camera on -a fence post, here and there a child jswung to its father’s shoulder. "Where is the President?” they Biliy heard the answer. there! Look! By Jakie . Barsinger!” The old man’s hands dropped, and lie sobbed. It had .all been so neatly done: the pretence .of. .5- 'runaway,

the confusion of tho moment, Colonel his life w.is gone. Long after the croud had followed in the dusty wake of the long carriage- lie turned his homes toward home. A hundred tourists had begged him to take them over the field, but he had- silently shaken his head, tie could not speak. Ban and Bess trotted briskly, mindful of the cool stable toward wliich their heads were sot, and they whinnied eagerly at. the stable door. They stood there for half ail hour, however, hefe-o their master clambered down to unharness them. He talked to himself

feebly, and, when lie bail finished, went out, not- to the house, where Abbie, who had watched Jakie Birsinger drive by, waited in an agony of fear, but down the street, and out by quiet alloys and Lilies to the National Cemetery. Sometimes he looked a little woiuleringly toward the crowded main streets, not able to recall instantly why the crowd was there, then remembering with a rage which shook him to the soul. Fleeting, futile suggestions of revenge dashed upon- him—a loosened nut \i J ikic Barsinger’s swingle-tree or a cut trace —and were repelled with horror which hurt -as much as the rage. All the town would taunt, him now. Why had lie not turned his carriage across the road and stopped Jakie Barsinger in his wild dash? It would have been better to have been’ killed- than to have lived to this. Around: the gate of the cemetery a company of cavalry was stationed, and within new thousands waited. It was afternoon now, and almost time for the trip over the field to end and tho exercises to begin. As Billy passed through the crowd, ho felt a ha ml on his shoulder. “Thought you were going to drive

the President,” said -a loud voice. Billy saw for an instant- the strange faces about him, gaping, interested to hear his answer.

“I ain’t nobody’s coachman,” ho said, coolly, and walked on. “They aiirit- goin’ to get a rise out of me,” he choked. “They ain’t goin’ to get a rise out- of me.” Ho walked slowly up the wide ave-

nue, and presently sat d-own on a bench. He was tired to death, and iiis head nodded, and presently dropped to his breast, regardless of blare of band .anil shouting of men and roll of carriage wheels. There was a song, and then a prayer, but Billy did not hear until the great speech was almost over. Then he opened iiis eyes drowsily, and saw the throng

withered round the wistaria-covered rostrum, from which the President was speaking. Billy sprang up. At least he would hear the speech. He pushed his way through the crowd which, seeing liis white hair, opened easily enough. Then -lie stood trembling, all his wrong rushing over him again at sight of the great and friendly figure. He was to have sat beside him, to -have talked with him ! He -rubbed l a weak hand across lvis eyes. Suddenly he realized that the formal portion of tho speech was over, the President was saying now a short farewell. “I wish to congratulate the commission wliich has made of -this great field so worthy a .memorial to those who died here. I wish to express my gratification to the citizens of this town for their interest in the preservation of the field, and their extraordinary knowledge of the complicated tactics of tho battle. Years ago niv interest was arouned by hearing my father tell of -a. visit here, -and o* the vivid story ofa guide—his name, I think, was William Gude.—-I—” “ ‘His name I think,’.” old Billy repeated, dully. “ ‘His name, I think, was William Gude.’ ” It was a few seconds before the purport of it reached his brain. Then he raised 1 -both arms, unaware that the speech -was ended- and that the crowd had begun to cheer. “Oh, Mr President,” he called, “my name is William Gude!” j-*oS head swam. They were turning away; they did nothear, “My name is William Gude,” ho said again, pitifully. The crowd l , pressing toward Jakie ißarsinger’s carriage, into which the President was stepping, carried him with them. They looked about them questioningly; they could see Colonel Mott, who was at the President’s side, beckoning to someone; who it was they could not tell. Then above the noise they heard -him call:

“Billy Guile!” Qie shouted. “Bii j ly—” -] “It’s me!” said Billy. He stared, i blinking, at Colonel Mott and at the ( President. j Colonel Mott laid his hand on his , shoulder. He had been trying to in- ] vent a suitable punishment for Jakie \ Barsinger. No more custom should < come to him through the commission. “The President wants you to ride i down to the station with him, Billy,” 1 ho -said. “Ho wants to know whe- : t-lier you remember liis father.” As in a dream, Billy climbed into j the carriage. The President sat on tiie rear seat now, and Billy was beside him. “I, remember him like yesterday,” he said. “T remember what lie said an’ how lie looked, an’—’’the words crowded upon each other as eagerly as the President’s questions, and Billy forgot all save them—the cheering crowd, the wondering, envious eyes of liis fellow citizens; ho did not even remember that Jakie Barsinger was driving him, Billy Guile, and tho President <>f the United States together. Once he caught a glimpse of Abbie’-s frightened face, aiif] ho waved his hand and the President lifted his hat. “I wish I could have known about you earlier in: the Way,” said the President, as bo stepped down at the

railroad station. Then lie took Billy's hand In -his. “It lias been a great pleasure to talk to you. ’ The engine puffed near at hand, there were other cheers from throats ■already 'hoarse with cheering, and the great man was gone, the great day was over. For an instant Bill.' watched the train, liis hand uplifted with -a thousand other hands in a ■ last salute to the swift-vanishing h- : gure in the observation-ear. Then ■! be turned, to meet 'the unwilling eyes : of Jakie Barsinger. helpless to more - liis carriage In the gi l crowd. I’ an instant his wrongs rushe-j gl K ’ !l i hint. “Jakie,” lie began. Then he lau-

ghed. The crowd were listening openmouthed. For the moment, now the President was gone, lie. Billy Guile, was the great hi in. He stepped nimbly into the carriage, R poachman,” he said, “you can drive home.”