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Little Ruster, the flute-player, with tears trickling
from his small red-lidded eyes, said in a broken
voice:
“Next to you, Colonel, next to you he was the
best man I’ve ever known.”
Those three worthy gentlemen sat round the
grave and solemnly dealt the cards.
Looking out over the world, I see many graves—graves
where once mighty men rest under a ponderous
weight of marble. Funeral marches were
played for them, and standards were dipped. I see
the graves of those who have been much beloved.
Flowers, caressed with kisses and watered with
tears, rest lightly on their grassy mounds. I see
forgotten graves and arrogant tombs, lying
resting-places and others that say nothing. But never
before have I seen the Right bower and the Joker with
cap-and-bells tendered in tribute to the occupant
of a grave.
“Johan Fredrik has won, as I expected,” said
the Colonel, proudly; “it was I that taught him to
play. Now we are dead—we three—and he alone
lives.”
Then the Colonel gathered up the cards and,
with his comrades, went back to Ekeby.
May the dead in his lonely grave have known
and felt that he was remembered.
Primitive hearts bring strange homage to those
they love. He who lies outside the wall of the
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