to all the men who are about to die, and to the ghosts that must go home.
But the cock that crows at morning (he thought), has a voice as shrill as any fife. It says, we are done with sleep. We are done with death. O waken, waken into life, says his voice as shrill as any fife. In that enormous silence, birds were waking.
He heard the cock’s bright minstrelsy again, and by the river in the dark, the great thunder of flanged wheels, and the long retreating wail of the whistle. And slowly, up the chill deserted street, he heard the heavy ringing clangor of shod hoofs. In that enormous silence, life was waking.
Joy awoke in him, and exultation. They had escaped from the prison of death; they were joined to the bright engine of life again. Life, ruddered life, that would not fail, began its myriad embarkations.
A paper-boy came briskly, with the stiff hobbled limp that Eugene knew so well, down the centre of the street, hurling a blocked paper accurately upon the porch of the Brunswick. As he came opposite Dixieland, he moved in to the curb, tossing his fresh paper with a careful plop. He knew there was sickness in the house.
The withered leaves were shaking.
Eugene jumped to the sidewalk from the sodded yard. He stopped the carrier.
“What’s your name, boy?” he said.
“Tyson Smathers,” said the boy, turning upon him a steady Scotch— Irish face that was full of life and business.
“My name is’Gene Gant. Did you ever hear of me?”
“Yes,” said Tyson Smathers, “I’ve heard of you. You had number 7.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Eugene, pompously, grinning. “I was just a boy.”
In that enormous silence, birds were waking.
He thrust his hand into a pocket and found a dollar-bill.
“Here,” he said. “I carried the damn things once. Next to my brother Ben, I was the best boy they ever had. Merry Christmas, Tyson.”
“It ain’t Christmas yet,” said Tyson Smathers.
