in the eternal portals, and extremely openwork. There was a "Gates Ajar"
collar--paper, I fear--loading the city counters. Ghastly rumors have
reached me of the existence of a "Gates Ajar" cigar. I have never
personally set my eyes upon these tangible forms of earthly fame. If the
truth must be told, I have kept a cowardly distance from them. Music, of
course, took her turn at the book, and popular "pieces" warbled under
its title. One of these, I think, is sung in Sunday-schools to this day.
Then there was, and still exists, the "Gates Ajar" funeral piece. This
used to seem to me the least serious of them all; but, by degrees, when
I saw the persistence of force in that elaborate symbol, how many
mourning people were so constituted as to find comfort in it, I came to
have a tolerance for it which even grows into a certain tenderness. I
may frankly admit that I have begun to love it since I heard about the
two ragged little newsboys who came to the eminent city florist, with
all their savings clenched in their grimy fists, and thus made known
their case:

"Ye see, Larks he was our pardner--him an' us sold on the same beat--and
he jes' got run over by a 'lectric, and it went over his back. So they
tuk him to the horspittle, 'n Larks he up an' died there yestiddy. So us
fellars we're goin' to give Larks a stylish funeril, you bet. We liked
Larks--an' it went over his back. Say, mister, there ain't nothin' mean
'bout _us_, come to buryin' of Larks; 'n we've voted to settle on
one them 'Gates Ajar' pieces--made o'flowers, doncherknow. So me 'n him
an' the other fellars we've saved up all our propurty, for we're agoin'
ter give Larks a stylish funeril--an' here it is, mister. I told the
kids ef there was more'n enough you's trow in a few greens, anyhow. Make
up de order right away, mister, and give us our money's worf now,
sure--for Larks."