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Early in September, one of the Labor Day parades was headed by an aged Jew, white-bearded and fierce-eyed, a cloak maker who knew no other words of English than those he uttered, who waved a purple banner and shouted at regular intervals: "Closed shop! Closed shop!" That man represented the spirit of thousands of immigrants who have recently become trade-unionists in America.
Heaps of corpses, men, women and children, but especially women, were caught here and there, and on one of the heaps an old white-bearded Arab was turning over the dead, one by one, seeking doubtless for some one who was dear to him. Having no official position in the army, and as I could not well rest on laurels I had not won, I spent my time sketching.
How far you are yourself capable of filling up what is left untold and conceiving, as a reality, Eve's first look on this her child, depends on no painter's skill, but on your own understanding. I have not identified the others, though I find the white-bearded figure behind Eve called Methuselah in my notes: I know not on what authority.
Then there drifted across the field of vision of his mind's eye the old man he had encountered at Glen Ellen, corning up the hillside through the fires of sunset, white-headed and white-bearded, eighty-four, in his hand the pail of foaming milk and in his face all the warm glow and content of the passing summer day. That had been age.
Entering one of the open doors, they stepped into an elevator and were whisked upward into the control room, in which a dozen of the aged, white-bearded students of Norlamin were grouped about a banked and tiered mass of keyboards, which Seaton knew must be the operating mechanism of the extraordinarily complete fifth-order projector he had been promised. "Ah, youngsters, you are just in time.
You shot that man" he pointed to the white-bearded person in the photograph, "but it was not parricide: it was not even murder. It was under grave provocation...in more than self-defence...and he was NOT your father." "Not my father!" I cried, clasping my hands and leaning forward in my profound suspense. "But I killed him all the same! Oh, Jack, how terrible!"
The white-bearded old man who was just then passing along the street turned to Mrs. Vane. "I shall be very happy to show the lady the house," he said half raising his felt hat from his white head with something like foreign politeness. And then he and Flossy exchanged glances which were hard and keen as steel. He knew her well by sight; but she did not recognise him.
He heard the grey-headed, white-bearded clergyman read the Burial Service. The words of hope had no meaning for him. An awful feeling of desolation filled his heart as he watched the earth thrown into the grave. A shiver passed through his body, caused not by the coldness alone. Several came to speak to him. He did not want to see them.
A picture is extant in Germany, said to have been of the time, showing the meek face of the white-haired, white-bearded Molay, his features drawn with wasting misery, his eyes one mute appeal, his hands bound over the large cross on his breast. He died proclaiming aloud the innocence of his order, and listened to with pity and indignation by the people.
An old white-bearded man with cane and spectacles and a heavy goatee working under a chew of tobacco tremulously pleaded for a pooling of the crops. The answer was that all would not pool, and the question was how to get all in.
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