All of the groups were not of a peaceful character. Some were having heated arguments over the trivial details of episodes a half century forgotten.

“No . . . you’re wrong, Sam, . . . it was eighteen seventy-one.”

“No, . . . Joe, ’seventy-two. I remember because it was the year the pie-plant froze.”

Or, “I remember you coming just as well that day because I saw your wagons . . .”

“I don’t know why you say ‘wagons,’ Celia. There was no plural number, when all we had was a bed and two chairs and a bob-tailed cow.”

And then it was time for the speech of the day. The young county attorney made it, from the airy heights of the band stand, at his side a glass of water on Abbie Deal’s marble-topped table.

It was a good speech. It flapped its wings and soared over the oaks and elms, and eventually came home to roost with: “You . . . you were the intrepid people! You, my friends, were the sturdy ones. Your days have been magnificent poems of labor. Your years have been as heroic stories as the sagas. Your lives have been dauntless, courageous, sweeping epics.”

“ ‘Sweeping’ is the word, Sarah!” Abbie said when the applause had faded away into the grove. “I wish I had a dollar for every broom I’ve worn out.”

Sarah Lutz’s little black eyes twinkled.

“How about it, Abbie, do you feel like a poem?”

“No, Sarah, I was always too busy filling up the youngsters and getting the patches on the overalls to notice that I was part of an epic.”

It was after the speech that Abbie first saw Oscar Lutz, who, at eighty-four, a little bent but as hardy as any old hickory, had come from California to be present at the reunion. Of the four old neighbors, Will Deal, Henry and Oscar Lutz and Gus Reinmueller, Oscar was now the only one living. He was well-to-do with his bonds and mortgages, his land and his California home.

“How are you, Oscar?”

“How are you, Abbie? It’s mighty nice to be back . . . mighty nice.”

“We’re glad to have you, Oscar . . .”

“Went down to Plattsmouth yestidy and found the post where the boats tied up fifty-eight years ago.”

“My! My! Oscar! Is the post still there?”

“Still there, Abbie. Gettin’ old like us . . . a little rotten . . . but still there . . . and a good mile and a quarter away from water. River bed’s changed that much.”

“I can scarcely believe it.”

“Everything changes, Abbie . . . folks and rivers. I kicked the old post when I found it.”

“What for, Oscar?”

“Don’t know, exactly, Abbie. Kind of a ceremony, I guess.” He had a far-away look in his eyes. “Remember how I told you I kicked it when Henry and I was waitin’ for the boat to come bringin’ Martha ’n’ Sarah ’n’ Grandpa?”