The Story of Dago | Page 7

veil that dragged on the
ground behind me and tripped me up in front when I tried to walk. It
was pinned tightly over my face, and I nearly smothered, for it was a
hot September afternoon. I sputtered and gasped under the nasty black
thing until I was almost choked. It was so thick I could scarcely breathe
through it, but the more I sputtered the more it pleased the children.
They said I seemed to be really crying and sobbing under my veil, and
that I was acting my part of chief mourner beautifully.
All the children of the neighbourhood came to the funeral. There was a
band to lead the procession; a band of three boys, playing on a French
harp, a jew's-harp, and a drum. Johnny Grey's Newfoundland dog was
hitched to the little wagon that held Matches's coffin. Phil drove, sitting
up solemnly in his father's best high silk hat with its band of crape. It
was much too large for his head, and slipped down over his curls until
the brim rested on the tips of his ears. It was serious business for Phil.
His eyes were red and his dirty face streaked with tears. He had grown
to be very fond of Matches.
Elsie and I followed on a tricycle. She had borrowed an old-fashioned
scoop bonnet and a black silk apron from one of the neighbours. I sat
beside her, feeling very hot and uncomfortable in the crape veil in
which I was pinned. The others walked behind us, two by two, in a
long procession. We went five times around the circle, while Sim
Williams, on the wood-shed roof, tolled a big auction bell, which he
had borrowed for the occasion.
[Illustration: MATCHES'S FUNERAL.]
When it was all over and the little mound over Matches's grave had
been covered with sod, the children were loath to stop playing funeral.
They had enjoyed it so much. Somebody said that we ought to march
down the street so that people could see how funny I looked in my
crape veil; but I could stand it no longer. When I saw that the band was
really moving toward the gate, and that Stuart was about to lift me into
the wagon that had carried Matches's coffin, I shrieked with rage and
bit and tore at my veil until I was soon free.

In about a minute it was nothing but a heap of rags and tatters, and Phil
and Stuart were looking at it and then at each other with troubled faces.
"It's Aunt Patricia's!" one of them gasped. "And it is all torn to bits! Oh,
Dago, you little mischief, how could you? Now we'll catch it!" As if it
were my fault. I don't know what happened when the veil was taken
back. Luckily I had no share in that part of it, although Miss Patricia
seemed to add that to the long list of grievances she had against me,
and her manner toward me grew even more severe than before.
The excitement of the funeral seemed to make Phil forget the loss of
Matches that day, but he cried next morning when Stuart came down
with me on his shoulder, and there was no frisky little pet for him to
fondle and feed. How he could grieve for her is more than I could
understand. I didn't miss her,--I was glad she was gone. Every day Phil
put fresh flowers on her grave. Sometimes it was only a stiff red
coxcomb or a little stemless geranium that had escaped the early frost.
Sometimes it was only a handful of bright grasses gone to seed. The
doctor's neglected garden flaunted few blooms this autumn, but the
little fellow, grieving long and sorely, did all he could to show respect
to Matches's memory.
One day, nearly a month later, he went crying into his father's office,
saying that Matches was gone. Stuart and Sim Williams had dug her up
and sold her skeleton to a naturalist in the next block for fifty cents. He
had just heard of it. I never saw a child so excited. He was sobbing so
hard that he could not breathe except in great choking gasps, and it was
some time before his father could quiet him enough to understand what
he was talking about.
Oh, but Doctor Tremont was angry! And yet it did not sound so bad
when Stuart had explained it. He hadn't thought that he was doing
anything dishonest or unkind to Phil. He only thought what an easy
way it would be to make fifty cents. He didn't see how it could make
any difference to Phil, so long as he never found it out, and Sim had
sworn not to tell. The mound