A REMINISCENCE OF THE BACK SETTLEMENTS
Now that corpse [said the undertaker, patting the folded hands of the
deceased approvingly was a brick-every way you took him he was a brick.
He was so real accommodating, and so modest-like and simple in his last
moments. Friends wanted metallic burial case–nothing else would do.
I couldn’t get it. There warn’t going to be time anybody could see that.
Corpse said never mind, shake him up some kind of a box he could stretch
out in comfortable, he warn’t particular ’bout the general style of it.
Said he went more on room than style, any way, in the last final
container. Friends wanted a silver door-plate on the coffin, signifying
who he was and wher, he was from. Now you know a fellow couldn’t roust
out such a gaily thing as that in a little country town like this. What
did corpse say? Corpse said, whitewash his old canoe and dob his address
and general destination onto it with a blacking brush and a stencil
plate, long with a verse from some likely hymn or other, and pint him for
the tomb, and mark him C. O. D., and just let him skip along. He warn’t
distressed any more than you be–on the contrary just as carm and
collected as a hearse-horse; said he judged that wher’ he was going to,
a body would find it considerable better to attract attention by a
picturesque moral character than a natty burial case with a swell
doorplate on it. Splendid man, he was. I’d druther do for a corpse like
that ‘n any I’ve tackled in seven year. There’s some satisfaction in
buryin’ a man like that. You feel that what you’re doing is appreciated.
Lord bless you, so’s he got planted before he sp’iled, he was perfectly
satisfied; said his relations meant well, perfectly well, but all them
preparations was bound to delay the thing more or less, and he didn’t
wish to be kept layin’ round. You never see such a clear head as what he
had–and so carm and so cool. Just a hunk of brains that is what he was.
Perfectly awful. It was a ripping distance from one end of that man’s
head to t’other. Often and over again he’s had brain fever a-raging in
one place, and the rest of the pile didn’t know anything about it–didn’t
affect it any more than an Injun insurrection in Arizona affects the
Atlantic States. Well, the relations they wanted a big funeral, but
corpse said he was down on flummery–didn’t want any procession–fill the
hearse full of mourners, and get out a stern line and tow him behind.
He was the most down on style of any remains I ever struck. A beautiful,
simple-minded creature–it was what he was, you can depend on that. He
was just set on having things the way he wanted them, and he took a solid
comfort in laying his little plans. He had me measure him and take a
whole raft of directions; then he had a minister stand up behind a long
box with a tablecloth over it and read his funeral sermon, saying
‘Angcore, angcore!’ at the good places, and making him scratch out every
bit of brag about him, and all the hifalutin; and then he made them trot
out the choir so’s he could help them pick out the tunes for the
occasion, and he got them to sing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel,’ because he’d
always liked that tune when he was downhearted, and solemn music made him
sad; and when they sung that with tears in their eyes (because they all
loved him), and his relations grieving around, he just laid there as
happy as a bug, and trying to beat time and showing all over how much he
enjoyed it; and presently he got worked up and excited; and tried to join
in, for mind you he was pretty proud of his abilities in the singing
line; but the first time he opened his mouth and was just going to spread
himself, his breath took a walk. I never see a man snuffed out so
sudden. Ah, it was a great loss–it was a powerful loss to this poor