and calm on one side,
and the still greenery of the cemetery stretching away on the other.
Half way down the drive he turned aside to the fence and all unconscious
of the halted procession, he picked a handful of the large leaves of the
wild grape. It was a hot day; he took off his hat, and put the cool
leaves in the crown of it and rejoined the procession. It did not seem
to me to be the mere forgetfulness of old age, nor yet callousness to
his own great sorrow. It was rather an instinctive return to the
immeasurable continuity of the trivial things of life--the trivial
necessary things which so often carry us over the greatest tragedies.

I talked with the Scotch Preacher afterward about the incident. He said
that he, too, marveling at the old man's calmness, had referred to it in
his presence. Uncle Richard turned to him and said slowly:

"I am an old man, and I have learned one thing. I have learned to accept
life."

Since that day I have seen Uncle Richard Summers many times walking on
the country roads with his cane. He always looks around at me and slowly
nods his head, but rarely says anything. At his age what is there to say
that has not already been said?

His trousers appear a size too large for him, his hat sets too far down,
his hands are long and thin upon the head of his cane. But his face is
tranquil. He has come a long way; there have been times of tempest and
keen winds, there have been wild hills in his road, and rocky places,
and threatening voices in the air. All that is past now: and his face is
tranquil.

I think we younger people do not often realize how keenly dependent we
are upon our contemporaries in age. We get little understanding and
sympathy either above or below them. Much of the world is a little misty
to us, a little out of focus. Uncle Richard Summer's contemporaries have
nearly all gone--mostly long ago: one of the last, his old wife. At his
home--I have been there often to see his son--he sits in a large rocking
chair with a cushion in it, and a comfortable high back to lean upon. No
one else ventures to sit in his chair, even when he is not there. It is
not far from the window; and when he sits down he can lean his cane
against the wall where he can easily reach it again.

There is a turmoil of youth and life always about him; of fevered
incomings and excited outgoings, of work and laughter and tears and joy
and anger. He watches it all, for his mind is still clear, but he do