"'The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo-- No more on earth's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread And glory guards with solemn sound The Bivouac of the Dead.'" "Now give me yo' will." Uncle Davy sat up solemnly, keenly, expectantly. Tilly and Aunt Sally sat subdued and sad, with that air of solemn importance and respect which might be expected of a dutiful daughter and bereaved widow on such an occasion. It was too solemn for Uncle Davy. He began to whimper again: "I didn't think I would ever live to see the day when I'd hear my own will read after I was dead, an' Hillard a-readin' it around my own corpse. It's Tilly's handwrite," he explained, as he saw the Bishop scrutinizing the testament closely. "I can't write, as you kno', but I've made my mark at the end, an' I want you to witness it." Pitching his voice to organ depths, the Bishop read: "_'In the name of God, amen: I, Davy Dickey, of the County of ----, and State of Alabama, being of sound mind and retentive memory, but knowing the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death, do hereby make and ordain this--my last will and testamen--_'" Uncle Davy had lain back, his eyes closed, his hands clasped, drinking it all in. "O, Hillard--Hillard, read it agin--it makes me so happy! It does me so much good. It sounds like the first chapter of Genesis, an' Daniel Webster's reply to Hayne an' the 19th Psalm all put together." The Bishop read it again. "So happy--so happy--" sobbed Uncle Davy, in which Aunt Sally and Tilly and the coon dog joined. "_'First,'_" read on the Bishop, following closely Tilly's pretty penmanship; "_'Concerning that part of me called the soul or spirit which is immortal, I will it back again to its Maker, leaving it to Him to do as He pleases with, without asking any impertinent questions or making any fool requests.'_" The Bishop paused. "That's a good idea, Davy--Givin' it back to its Maker without asking any impert'n'ent questions." "_'Second,'_" read the Bishop, "_'I wills to be buried alongside of Dan'l Tubbs, on the Chestnut Knob, the same enclosed with a rock wall, forever set aside for me an' Dan'l and running west twenty yards to a black jack, then east to a cedar stump three rods, then south to a stake twenty yards and thence west back to me an' Dan'l. I wills the fence to be built horse high, bull strong and pig tight, so as to keep out the Widow Simmon's old brindle cow; the said cow having pestered us nigh to death in life, I don't want her to worry us back to life after death._ "_'Third. All the rest of the place except that occupied as aforesaid by me an' Dan'l, and consisting of twenty acres, more or less, I will to go to my dutiful wife, Sally Ann Dickey, providing, of course, that she do not marry again.'_"