DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0066
42 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE
ders, their swords unsheathed, and at the far end a group of
people standing about the open grave with bowed heads,
the whole scene lighted by candlelight. The mournful
music, the fitful flickering of lights, the pervasive sense of
mystery, the minister’s solitary voice breaking the great
silence!
This I only half remember, but the picture stays with
me — the crowded streets from the City Hall up Capitol
Hill, and out to the cemetery, two miles of impenetrable
human beings, and of little me, sitting very still in the first
carriage, my hand clasped in the hand of my aunt, my
white dress and Leghorn hat — this time with black band
and black streamers — watching them close to the carriage
window, and wondering if they knew who I was and what
an important part I was of the programme! 'And such is
the gratitude of childhood!
ders, their swords unsheathed, and at the far end a group of
people standing about the open grave with bowed heads,
the whole scene lighted by candlelight. The mournful
music, the fitful flickering of lights, the pervasive sense of
mystery, the minister’s solitary voice breaking the great
silence!
This I only half remember, but the picture stays with
me — the crowded streets from the City Hall up Capitol
Hill, and out to the cemetery, two miles of impenetrable
human beings, and of little me, sitting very still in the first
carriage, my hand clasped in the hand of my aunt, my
white dress and Leghorn hat — this time with black band
and black streamers — watching them close to the carriage
window, and wondering if they knew who I was and what
an important part I was of the programme! 'And such is
the gratitude of childhood!