"Most gone"--he sobbed--"Hillard--the old man is most gone. You've come jus' in time to see your old friend breathe his las' an' to witness his will," and he broke out sobbing afresh, in which Aunt Sally and Tilly and the dog, all of whom had followed the Bishop in, joined.

The Bishop took in the situation at a glance. Then he broke into a smile that gradually settled all over his kindly face.

"Look aheah, Davy, you ain't no mo' dyin' than I am."

"What--what?" said Uncle Davy between his sobs--"I ain't a dyin', Hillard? Oh, yes, I be. Sally and Tilly both say so."

"Now, look aheah, Davy, it ain't so. I've seed hundreds die--yes, hundreds--strong men, babes--women and little tots, strong ones, and weak and frail ones, given to tears, but I've never seed one die yet sheddin' a single tear, let alone blubberin' like a calf. It's agin nature. Davy, dyin' men don't weep. It's always all right with 'em.

It's the one moment of all their lives, often, that everything is all right, seein' as they do, that all life has been a dream--all back of death jes' a beginnin' to live, an' so they die contented. No--no, Davy, if they've lived right they want to smile, not weep."

There was an immediate snuffing and drying of tears all around. Uncle Davy looked sheepishly at Aunt Sally, she pa.s.sed the same look on to Tilly, and Tilly pa.s.sed it to the c.o.o.n dog. Here it rested in its birthplace.

"Come to think of it, Hillard," said Uncle Dave after a while, "but I believe you are right."

Tilly came back, and she and Aunt Sally nodded their heads: "Yes, Hillard, you're right," went on Uncle Davy, "Tilly and Sally both say so."

"How come you to think you was dyin' anyway?" asked the Bishop.

"Hillard,--you kno', Hillard--the old man's been thinkin' he'd go sudden-like a long time." He raised his eyes to heaven: "Yes, Lord, thy servant is even ready."

"Last night I felt a kind o' flutterin' of my heart an' I cudn't breathe good. I thought it was death--death,--Hillard, on the back of his pale horse. Tilly and Sally both thought so."

The Bishop laughed. "That warn't death on the back of a horse, Davy--that was jus' wind on the stomach of an a.s.s."

This was too much for Uncle Davy--especially when Tilly and Sally made it unanimous by giggling outright.

"You et cabbages for supper," said the Bishop.

Uncle Davy nodded, sheepishly.

"Then I sed my will an' Tilly writ it down an', oh, Hillard, I am so anxious to hear you read it. I wanter see how it'ull feel fer a man to have his will read after he is dead--an'--an'

how his widder takes it," he added, glancing at Aunt Sally--"an'

his friends. I wanter heah you read it, Hillard, in that deep organ way of yours,--like you read the Old Testament. In that _In-the-Beginning-G.o.d-Created-the-Heaven-an'-the-Earth-Kinder_ voice!

Drap your voice low like a organ, an' let the old man hear it befo' he goes. I fixed it when I thought I was a-dyin'."

"Makin' yo' will ain't no sign you're dyin'," said the Bishop.

"But Tilly an' Aunt Sally both said so," said Uncle Davy, earnestly.

"All yo' needs," said the Bishop going to his saddle bags, "is a good straight whiskey. I keep a little--a very, very little bit in my saddle bags, for jes' sech occasions as these. It's twenty years old," he said, "an' genuwine old Lincoln County. I keep it only for folks that's dyin'," he winked, "an' sometimes, Davy, I feel mighty like I'm about to pa.s.s away myself."

He poured out a very small medicine gla.s.s of it, shining and shimmering in the morning light like a big ruby,--and handed it to Uncle Davy.

"You say that's twenty years old, Hillard?" asked Uncle Davy as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and again held the little gla.s.s out entreatingly:

"Hillard, ain't it mighty small for its age--'pears to me it orter be twins to make it the regulation size. Don't you think so?"

The Bishop gave him another and took one himself, remarking as he did so, "I was pow'ful fl.u.s.trated when I heard you was dyin' again, Davy, an' I need it to stiddy my nerves. Now, fetch out yo' will, Davy," he added.

As he took it the Bishop adjusted his big spectacles, b.u.t.toned up his coat, and drew himself up as he did in the pulpit. He blew his nose to get a clear sonorous note:

"I've got a verse of poetry that I allers tunes my voice up to the occasion with," he said. "I do it sorter like a fiddler tunes up his fiddle. It's a great poem an' I'll put it agin anything in the Queen's English for real thunder music an' a sentiment that Shakespeare an'

Milton nor none of 'em cud a writ. It stirs me like our park of artillery at Shiloh, an' it puts me in tune with the great dead of all eternity. It makes me think of Cap'n Tom an' Albert Sidney Johnston."

Then in a deep voice he repeated:

"'The m.u.f.fled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo-- No more on earth's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread And glory guards with solemn sound The Bivouac of the Dead.'"

"Now give me yo' will."

Uncle Davy sat up solemnly, keenly, expectantly. Tilly and Aunt Sally sat subdued and sad, with that air of solemn importance and respect which might be expected of a dutiful daughter and bereaved widow on such an occasion. It was too solemn for Uncle Davy. He began to whimper again: "I didn't think I would ever live to see the day when I'd hear my own will read after I was dead, an' Hillard a-readin' it around my own corpse. It's Tilly's handwrite," he explained, as he saw the Bishop scrutinizing the testament closely. "I can't write, as you kno', but I've made my mark at the end, an' I want you to witness it."

Pitching his voice to organ depths, the Bishop read:

"_'In the name of G.o.d, amen: I, Davy d.i.c.key, of the County of ----, and State of Alabama, being of sound mind and retentive memory, but knowing the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death, do hereby make and ordain this--my last will and testamen--_'"

Uncle Davy had lain back, his eyes closed, his hands clasped, drinking it all in.

"O, Hillard--Hillard, read it agin--it makes me so happy! It does me so much good. It sounds like the first chapter of Genesis, an' Daniel Webster's reply to Hayne an' the 19th Psalm all put together."

The Bishop read it again.

"So happy--so happy--" sobbed Uncle Davy, in which Aunt Sally and Tilly and the c.o.o.n dog joined.

"_'First,'_" read on the Bishop, following closely Tilly's pretty penmanship; "_'Concerning that part of me called the soul or spirit which is immortal, I will it back again to its Maker, leaving it to Him to do as He pleases with, without asking any impertinent questions or making any fool requests.'_"

The Bishop paused. "That's a good idea, Davy--Givin' it back to its Maker without asking any impert'n'ent questions."

"_'Second,'_" read the Bishop, "_'I wills to be buried alongside of Dan'l Tubbs, on the Chestnut k.n.o.b, the same enclosed with a rock wall, forever set aside for me an' Dan'l and running west twenty yards to a black jack, then east to a cedar stump three rods, then south to a stake twenty yards and thence west back to me an' Dan'l. I wills the fence to be built horse high, bull strong and pig tight, so as to keep out the Widow Simmon's old brindle cow; the said cow having pestered us nigh to death in life, I don't want her to worry us back to life after death._

"_'Third. All the rest of the place except that occupied as aforesaid by me an' Dan'l, and consisting of twenty acres, more or less, I will to go to my dutiful wife, Sally Ann d.i.c.key, providing, of course, that she do not marry again.'_"

"David?" put in Aunt Sallie, promptly, wiping her eyes, "I think that last thing mout be left out."

"Well, I don't kno'," said Uncle Davy--"you sho'ly ain't got no notion of marryin' agin, have you, Sally?"

"No--no--" said Aunt Sallie, thoughtfully, "but there aint no tellin'

what a po' widder mout have to do if pushed to the wall."

"Well," sagely remarked Uncle Davy, "we'll jes' let it stan' as it is. It's like a dose of calomel for disorder of the stomach--if you need it it'll cure you, an' if you don't it won't hurt you. This thing of old folks fallin' in love ain't nothin' but a disorder of the stomach anyhow."

Aunt Sally again protested a poor widow was often pushed to the wall and had to take advantage of circ.u.mstances, but Uncle Davy told the Bishop to read on.

At this point Tilly got up and left the room.

"_'Fourth. I give and bequeath to my devoted daughter, Tilly, and her husband, Charles C. Biggers, all my personal property, including the crib up in the loft, the razor my grandfather left me, the old mare and her colt, the best bed in the parlor, and--'_"