At last there were lots of them dotted about the fields and woods I
knew. I remembered to whom most of them belonged, and even if I had
forgotten, it made a very good game, to pretend to be a stranger in the
neighbourhood, and then pretend to be somebody else, talking to myself,
and saying, "Wherever you see those little graves some poor creature has
been buried by the Brothers of Pity."

I did not like to read the burial service, for fear it should not be
quite right (especially for frogs; there were so many of them in summer,
and they were so horrid-looking, I used to bury several together, and
pretend it was the time of the plague); but I did not like not having
any service at all. So when I put on my cloak and mask, and took my
spade and the bier, I said, "Brothers, let us prepare to perform this
work of mercy," which is the first thing the real _Fratelli della
Misericordia_ say when they are going out. And when I buried the body I
said, "Go in peace," which is the last thing that they say. Godfather
Gilpin told me, and I learnt it by heart.

I enjoyed it very much. There were graves of beasts and birds who had
died without friends in the hedges and the soft parts of the fields in
almost all our walks. I never showed them to Nurse, but I often wondered
that she did not notice them. I always touched my hat when I passed
them, and sometimes it was very difficult to do so without her seeing
me, but it made me quite uncomfortable if I passed a grave without. When
I could not find any bodies I amused myself with making wreaths to hang
over particularly nice poor beasts, such as a bullfinch or a kitten.

I had been a Brother of Pity for several months, when a very curious
thing happened.