The band played, great, sad songs. The cornets and trombones sent a muted
shiver through the street. The band stopped playing and the people leaning
out of the windows sighed. Ah, it was a nice funeral!

Inside the Sikora house four men stood up beside the handsome black coffin
and sang. Mrs. Sikora in a voluminous black veil listened with tears
running from her face. Never had she heard such beautiful singing
before--all in time and all the notes sweet and inspiring. She wept some
more and solicitous arms raised her to her feet. Solicitous arms guided
her out of the flower-filled room as six men lifted the black coffin and
carried it into the street.

* * * * *

Slowly the automobiles rolled away. And behind the open car heaped with
flowers rode Mrs. Sikora. The dolorous music of the band filled her with a
gentle ecstasy. The flower scents drifted to her and when her eyes glanced
furtively out of the back window of the limousine she could see the
procession reaching for almost a half block. All black limousines filled
with faces staring in surprise at the street.

And in front of the flower car in an ornamental hearse rode Mr. Sikora.
The wheels of the hearse were heavily tired. They made no sound and the
chauffeur was careful that his precious burden should not be joggled.

Slowly through the loop the procession picked its way. Crowds of people
paused to stare back at the staring ones in the automobiles and to listen
to the--fine music that rose above the clamor of the "L" trains and the
street cars and the trucks.