Mrs. Banger has buried four husbands, and her experience of domestic
life in their company was so satisfactory that she recently married a
fifth, Mr. Banger. The name of her fourth was McFadden. The name of
her first and third was Smyth, while that of her second, oddly enough,
was Smith. Soon after her return from her last wedding-tour she was
visited by Mr. Toombs, the undertaker, who called ostensibly to
correct an error in his last bill. When Mrs. Banger entered the
parlor, Mr. Toombs greeted her cordially and said,

"Ah! Mrs. Smy--Banger, I mean; I hope I see you well? Did you have a
pleasant trip? Nice weather while you were away; a little backward,
maybe, but still comfortable, and likely to make things grow. Cemetery
looks beautiful now. I was out there to-day to a burying. Grass is
coming up charming on your lot, and I noticed a blackberry bush
growing out of Mr. Smyth's grave. He was fond of 'em, I reckon. There
they were lying, Smith and Smyth, and McFadden and the other Smyth,
all four of them. No woman could have done fairer with those men than
you did, ma'am; those mahogany coffins with silver-plated handles were
good enough for the patriarchs and prophets, and the President of the
United States himself daren't ask anything better than a hearse with
real ostrich feathers and horses that are black as ink all over.

"I know when we laid Mr. McFadden out I said to Tim Lafferty, my
foreman, that the affection you showed in having that man buried in
style almost made me cry; but I never fully realized what woman's love
really is till you made me line Mr. Smith's coffin with white satin
and let in a French plate-glass skylight over the countenance. That
worked on my feelings so that I pretty near forgot to distribute the
gloves to the mourners. And Mr. Smith was worthy of it; he deserved
it all. He was a man all over, no difference how you looked at him;