With a curious touch of folk lore Granma Gregory advised me to “look for the harness under the bed, if it was a nightmare.”  But she upbraided Granma Wandon, her mother, for retailing me such tales.

“Nonsense, it’ll do him good, my sweet little Johnnie,” she assured her daughter, knocking her corncob pipe over the coal scuttle like a man.

* * * * *

There was a story of Granma Wandon’s that cut deep into my memory.  It was the story of the man who died cursing God, and who brought, by his cursing, the dancing of the very flames of Hell, red-licking and serrate, in a hideous cluster, like an infernal bed of flowers, just outside the window, for all around his death-bed to see!

In the fall of the next year Granma Wandon took sick.  We knew it was all over for her.  She faded painlessly into death.  She knew she was going, said so calmly and happily.  She made Millie and Granma Gregory promise they’d be good to me.  I wept and wept.  I kissed her leathery, leaf-like hand with utter devotion ... she could hardly lift it.  Almost of itself it sought my face and flickered there for a moment.

* * * * *

She seemed to be listening to something far off.

“Can’t you hear it, Maggie?” she asked her daughter.

“Hear what, mother?”

“Music ... that beautiful music!”

“Do you see anything, mother?”

“Yes ... heaven!”

Then the fine old pioneer soul passed on.  I’ll bet she still clings grimly to an astral corncob pipe somewhere in space.

* * * * *

A week before she died, Aunt Millie told us she was sure the end was near.  For Millie had waked up in the night and had seen the old lady come into her room, reach under the bed, take the pot forth, use it,—­and glide silently upstairs to her room again.

Millie spoke to the figure and received no answer.  Then, frightened, she knew she had seen a “token” of Granma Wandon’s approaching death.

* * * * *

In the parlour stood the black coffin on trestles; the door open, for we had a fear of cats getting at the body,—­we could glimpse the ominous black object as we sat down to breakfast.  And I laid my head on the table and wept as much because of that sight as over the loss of my old comrade and playmate.

Something vivid had gone out of my life.  And for the first time I felt and knew the actuality of death.  Like a universe-filling, soft, impalpable dust it slowly sifted over me, bearing me under.  I saw for the first time into all the full graves of the world.

* * * * *

To my great-grandmother’s funeral came many distant relatives I had never rested eye on before ... especially there came my Great-aunt Rachel, Granma Gregory’s sister,—­a woman just as sweet-natured as she, and almost her twin even to the blue rupture of a vein in the middle of the lower lip.  She, too, had a slightly protrusive stomach over which she had the habit of folding her hard-working hands restfully, when she talked ... and also there came with her my Great-uncle Joshua, her husband ... and my second cousins, Paul and Phoebe, their children.  The other children, two girls, were off studying in a nurses’ college ... working their way there.