AN INDIANA CAMPAIGN

I


When the able-bodied citizens of the village formed a company and
marched away to the war, Major Tom Boldin assumed in a manner the burden
of the village cares. Everybody ran to him when they felt obliged to
discuss their affairs. The sorrows of the town were dragged before him.
His little bench at the sunny side of Migglesville tavern became a sort
of an open court where people came to speak resentfully of their
grievances. He accepted his position and struggled manfully under the
load. It behoved him, as a man who had seen the sky red over the quaint,
low cities of Mexico, and the compact Northern bayonets gleaming on the
narrow roads.

One warm summer day the major sat asleep on his little bench. There was
a lull in the tempest of discussion which usually enveloped him. His
cane, by use of which he could make the most tremendous and impressive
gestures, reposed beside him. His hat lay upon the bench, and his old
bald head had swung far forward until his nose actually touched the
first button of his waistcoat.

The sparrows wrangled desperately in the road, defying perspiration.
Once a team went jangling and creaking past, raising a yellow blur of
dust before the soft tones of the field and sky. In the long grass of
the meadow across the road the insects chirped and clacked eternally.