The body of William F. Cummins came home in
state--home at last, where the familiar caw of crow and tinkle of
cow-bell might almost conjure the dead back to life again. Three years
before, at the time of the great Centennial, when, in the full vigor of
manhood, Will Cummins had visited his native town, no sounds had so
stirred old memories of fields and mountains as those homely sounds of
crow and cow-bell.
Then neighbors had flocked about the bold Californian, eager to press
his hand and to look into his fearless eyes. Now, robbed and murdered,
he came home again, life's journey ended. The quiet village was
appalled, and shaken with anger. Friends and neighbors flocked to the
funeral--indignant youths, solemn old men and women. True, the younger
generation had hardly known of the Californian's existence. To them he
seemed to have come out of the Sierras like a Rip Van Winkle, who slept
soundly on, asking no questions. But to the old men he had died a youth,
full of promise. They remembered well the eager buoyancy with which he
and his comrades had set out for the gold fields. Middle-aged men and
women remembered his school days in Reedsville, when he was one of them,
when they were all healthy, merry boys and girls together.
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