"
The words, the air, that husky voice, recalled to the men of Carlow
another day and another procession, not like this one. And the song
Wilkerson was singing is the one song every Northern-born American knows
and can sing. The leader of the band caught the sound, signalled to his
men; twenty instruments rose as one to twenty mouths; the snare-drum
rattled, the big drum crashed, the leader lifted his baton high over his
head, and music burst from twenty brazen throats:
"Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!"
Instantaneously, the whole procession began to sing the refrain, and the
people in the street, and those in the wagons and carriages, and those
leaning from the windows joined with one accord, the ringing bells caught
the time of the song, and the upper air reverberated in the rhythm.
The Harkless Club of Carlow wheeled into Main Street, two hundred strong,
with their banners and transparencies. Lige Willetts rode at their head,
and behind him strode young William Todd and Parker and Ross Schofield and
Homer Tibbs and Hartley Bowlder, and even Bud Tipworthy held a place in
the ranks through his connection with the "Herald." They were all singing.
And, behind them, Helen saw the flag-covered barouche and her father, and
beside him sat John Harkless with his head bared.
She glanced at Briscoe; he was standing on the front seat with Minnie
beside him, and both were singing.
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