1

A SALVATION ARMY FUNERAL.

Yellow, purple and red is the flag of the Salvation army.

Yesterday two other colors were added.

One was black; that was for grief. One was white; that was for innocence.

Sister Stenie Glassman was dead.
Who was Sister Stenie Glassman?

A woman, young, plain of face, decisive of speech, simple of manner, who could kneel in the mud of the street and pray while the crowds jeered at her. A woman who could enter a saloon and wage there fierce battle against what she considered win; a woman who coudl swing the cymbals in metallic clangor in the street march or the Salvationists and call on the ungodly to fall in and march with the army of the Lord.

Such women are generally counted a nuisance.

But it is very difficult at times to tell the difference between a nuisance and a hero. Besides, public opinion holds up but an illusive mirror. Sometime, centuries from now, when men are permitted in that dim and doubtful resurrection to look in the mirror of truth, it may appear that many of the figures which seem dwarfed now, will tower then among their fellows, while many that stand tall and straight will be shrunken and strangely deformed.

Stenie Glassman, with those mud stained garments and the strap of the Salvation army on her sleeve, may stand then above white cravatted clergyman, who discoursed to his followers in English, the faultlessness of which the girl who marched the streets could not even appreciate.

However this may be, she was buried yesterday in the new cemetery and services which were attended by 500 persons were held in the Salvation army barracks at the corner of Davenport and Seventeeth streets. The flag under which she had fought her own peculiar and daring little light drooped over the coffin. On the platform sat five officers of the army, young women, all with broad white sashes soldier-wise over their breasts, and gloves of white. Back of them were a group of girl cadets in the uniform, but without the sashes.

Concertina, violin, cymbal, and zither accompanied the singing. There were no dirges, but instead songs of triumph. Why mourn when a soldier had marched to victory? That is the way the Salvationists looked at it. Ensign Eddie Parker, Lieutenant O. Leyres, Cadet Woodhouse and the Rev. J. S. Philips sat together in a row where the pulpit would have been, had there been one, and all but the Rev. Philips played on some musical instrument when the fitting moment came. Rev. Philips made a few fitting remarks. He said Sister Glassman had died in the servlee, and that while her death was mourned her fearless life would serve as an inspiration to those who knew her.

Have you ever seen that little man with the piercing voice, all nerve and fire with the eyes of an enthusiast and the graphic speech of the born leader, who leaps and dances before the processions of the army on the street, and who harangues the congregations with hectic eloquence?

"We do not come here to mourn," said he, "although we loved her who lies there in the coffin. We can mourn in our homes better than in a public place like this. We come here to say to those who are dead in trespasses and sins; to this will you all come at last. However fine and safe you may think yourself now, the day will dawn when the cold hand of death will be laid on your shoulder; you will be pushed to the brink of the dark river and from you will be washed all this that hides your true self. Therefore, today, while you see what death is, how suddenly it comes, how inevitable it is, whether you be four-score or only a child, kneel beside this coffin and swear to be ready against the day which waits for you."

He told how this lamented sisted died, smiling and saying her house was in order for the coming guest, and some of the girls in the congregation wept.

Meanwhile the air within grew heavy and foul; but the motlet crowd--English, Welsh, Irishmen with the green in their button holes, negroes, Swedes, companies of men out of work, other companies of the curious who had nothing to do with the army, children, who love to hear the noise and rough display of the Salvationists--seemed not to mind, and kept their eyes on the scarlet waistcoat of the little man on the platform, who seized his concertina and sang to them and then laid it down to beseech his listeners to enlist under the banner of the Lord. Much singing and talking in the open air had given his tones their strident qualities; much suiting of words to vice-befuddled brains had given him his simple eloquence; much need for bravado had given him his almost belligerent earnestness.

A very valuable man to the Salvation army, this little, tense, nervous, electrical, alert creature in the scarlet waistcoat.

The sisters with the white sashes sang more songs after he had finished his talk, all of them glad songs. Meanwhile some boys called from the street without, a baby cried in the audience, and the undertaker hovered in the rear.

Meetings were announced and then the little man asked "the dear undertaker to do his duty," which the dear undertaker promptly did, and all the congregation marched around to look at Sister Stenie Glassman--not so much because she was Sister Stenie Glassman, as because she was dead.

A crowd always likes to look at anything that is dead.

They fled past the be-sashed and still singing sisters, and past the wonderful picture on the wall, where a moon, a star, a shaft of lighting and a settling sun are all contending together to see which can shed the most light upon a wobbly cross, decked with ivy and standing in the midst of the most precipitous mountains over designed nature or painted by artist. Reaching the open air the congregation waited while six sisters brought out the light coffin. Before them marched the color bearers and six young men; behind them followed the mourners, including the husband of the dead woman; and then came the soldiers of the army from Omaha and Council Bluffs. A long procession of sympathizers closed the rear. The muffled drum set the slow pace of the march; and on the coffin were the American flag and the military bonnet of the dead captian.

For six or eight blocks the procession marched before the empty carriages, then, near the viaduct, the coffin was placed in the hearse, officers and soldiers got in their carriages, and the crowd dispersed.

At the grave the services were concluded, and Sister Stenie Glassman was laid to rest to the sound of cymbals and songs, zithers and triumphant cries, sounds long familiar to her ears as she marched the streets of Omaha with the little band of friends.

Do you think it was vulgar, you line conservations?

The vulgar thing is the false one.
This funeral was honest.

ELIA W. PEATTIE.

A SALVATION ARMY FUNERAL.

Yellow, purple and red is the flag of the Salvation army.

Yesterday two other colors were added.

One was black; that was for grief. One was white; that was for innocence.

Sister Stenie Glassman was dead.
Who was Sister Stenie Glassman?

A woman, young, plain of face, decisive of speech, simple of manner, who could kneel in the mud of the street and pray while the crowds jeered at her. A woman who could enter a saloon and wage there fierce battle against what she considered win; a woman who coudl swing the cymbals in metallic clangor in the street march or the Salvationists and call on the ungodly to fall in and march with the army of the Lord.

Such women are generally counted a nuisance.

But it is very difficult at times to tell the difference between a nuisance and a hero. Besides, public opinion holds up but an illusive mirror. Sometime, centuries from now, when men are permitted in that dim and doubtful resurrection to look in the mirror of truth, it may appear that many of the figures which seem dwarfed now, will tower then among their fellows, while many that stand tall and straight will be shrunken and strangely deformed.

Stenie Glassman, with those mud stained garments and the strap of the Salvation army on her sleeve, may stand then above white cravatted clergyman, who discoursed to his followers in English, the faultlessness of which the girl who marched the streets could not even appreciate.

However this may be, she was buried yesterday in the new cemetery and services which were attended by 500 persons were held in the Salvation army barracks at the corner of Davenport and Seventeeth streets. The flag under which she had fought her own peculiar and daring little light drooped over the coffin. On the platform sat five officers of the army, young women, all with broad white sashes soldier-wise over their breasts, and gloves of white. Back of them were a group of girl cadets in the uniform, but without the sashes.

Concertina, violin, cymbal, and zither accompanied the singing. There were no dirges, but instead songs of triumph. Why mourn when a soldier had marched to victory? That is the way the Salvationists looked at it. Ensign Eddie Parker, Lieutenant O. Leyres, Cadet Woodhouse and the Rev. J. S. Philips sat together in a row where the pulpit would have been, had there been one, and all but the Rev. Philips played on some musical instrument when the fitting moment came. Rev. Philips made a few fitting remarks. He said Sister Glassman had died in the servlee, and that while her death was mourned her fearless life would serve as an inspiration to those who knew her.

Have you ever seen that little man with the piercing voice, all nerve and fire with the eyes of an enthusiast and the graphic speech of the born leader, who leaps and dances before the processions of the army on the street, and who harangues the congregations with hectic eloquence?

"We do not come here to mourn," said he, "although we loved her who lies there in the coffin. We can mourn in our homes better than in a public place like this. We come here to say to those who are dead in trespasses and sins; to this will you all come at last. However fine and safe you may think yourself now, the day will dawn when the cold hand of death will be laid on your shoulder; you will be pushed to the brink of the dark river and from you will be washed all this that hides your true self. Therefore, today, while you see what death is, how suddenly it comes, how inevitable it is, whether you be four-score or only a child, kneel beside this coffin and swear to be ready against the day which waits for you."

He told how this lamented sisted died, smiling and saying her house was in order for the coming guest, and some of the girls in the congregation wept.

Meanwhile the air within grew heavy and foul; but the motlet crowd--English, Welsh, Irishmen with the green in their button holes, negroes, Swedes, companies of men out of work, other companies of the curious who had nothing to do with the army, children, who love to hear the noise and rough display of the Salvationists--seemed not to mind, and kept their eyes on the scarlet waistcoat of the little man on the platform, who seized his concertina and sang to them and then laid it down to beseech his listeners to enlist under the banner of the Lord. Much singing and talking in the open air had given his tones their strident qualities; much suiting of words to vice-befuddled brains had given him his simple eloquence; much need for bravado had given him his almost belligerent earnestness.

A very valuable man to the Salvation army, this little, tense, nervous, electrical, alert creature in the scarlet waistcoat.

The sisters with the white sashes sang more songs after he had finished his talk, all of them glad songs. Meanwhile some boys called from the street without, a baby cried in the audience, and the undertaker hovered in the rear.

Meetings were announced and then the little man asked "the dear undertaker to do his duty," which the dear undertaker promptly did, and all the congregation marched around to look at Sister Stenie Glassman--not so much because she was Sister Stenie Glassman, as because she was dead.

A crowd always likes to look at anything that is dead.

They fled past the be-sashed and still singing sisters, and past the wonderful picture on the wall, where a moon, a star, a shaft of lighting and a settling sun are all contending together to see which can shed the most light upon a wobbly cross, decked with ivy and standing in the midst of the most precipitous mountains over designed nature or painted by artist. Reaching the open air the congregation waited while six sisters brought out the light coffin. Before them marched the color bearers and six young men; behind them followed the mourners, including the husband of the dead woman; and then came the soldiers of the army from Omaha and Council Bluffs. A long procession of sympathizers closed the rear. The muffled drum set the slow pace of the march; and on the coffin were the American flag and the military bonnet of the dead captian.

For six or eight blocks the procession marched before the empty carriages, then, near the viaduct, the coffin was placed in the hearse, officers and soldiers got in their carriages, and the crowd dispersed.

At the grave the services were concluded, and Sister Stenie Glassman was laid to rest to the sound of cymbals and songs, zithers and triumphant cries, sounds long familiar to her ears as she marched the streets of Omaha with the little band of friends.

Do you think it was vulgar, you line conservations?

The vulgar thing is the false one.
This funeral was honest.

ELIA W. PEATTIE.