roaring through the village like a hurricane, and took the funeral
procession right in the center, and sent that section of it sprawling,
and galloped over it, and the rest scattered apart and fled screeching in
every direction, every person with a layer of bees on him, and not a rag
of that funeral left but the corpse; and finally the bull broke for the
river and jumped in, and when they fished Uncle Laxart out he was nearly
drowned, and his face looked like a pudding with raisins in it. And then
he turned around, this old simpleton, and looked a long time in a dazed
way at Joan where she had her face in a cushion, dying, apparently, and
says:

"What do you reckon she is laughing at?"

And old D'Arc stood looking at her the same way, sort of absently
scratching his head; but had to give it up, and said he didn't
know--"must have been something that happened when we weren't noticing."

Yes, both of those old people thought that that tale was pathetic;
whereas to my mind it was purely ridiculous, and not in any way valuable
to any one. It seemed so to me then, and it seems so to me yet. And as
for history, it does not resemble history; for the office of history is
to furnish serious and important facts that teach; whereas this strange
and useless event teaches nothing; nothing that I can see, except not to
ride a bull to a funeral; and surely no reflecting person needs to be
taught that.



37 Again to Arms