that long. She says fun'rals is 'bout the only recreation she has, 'n'
she doos git a heap o' satisfaction out of 'em, 'n' no mistake. She'll
go early, afore any o' the comp'ny assembles. She'll say her clock must
'a' ben fast, 'n' then they'll ask her to set down 'n' make herself to
home. Then she'll choose her seat accordin' to the way the house is
planned. She won't git too fur from the remains, because she'll want to
see how the fam'ly appear when they take their last look, but she'll
want to git opposite a door, where she can look into the other rooms 'n'
see whether they shed any tears when the minister begins his remarks.
She allers takes a little gum camphire in her pocket, so't if anybody
faints away durin' the long prayer, she's right on hand. Bein' near the
door, she can hear all the minister says, 'n' how the order o' the
mourners is called, 'n' ef she ain't too fur from the front winders she
can hev a good view of the bearers and the mourners as they get into the
kerridges. There's a sight in knowin' how to manage at a fun'ral; it
takes faculty, same as anything else."

"How does David bear up?" asked Miss Vilda.

"Oh, he's calm. David was always calm and resigned, you know. He shed
tears durin' the remarks, but I s'pose, mebbe, he was wishin' they was
more appropriate. He's about the forlornest creeter now you ever see' in
your life. There never was any self-assume to David Milliken. I declare
it's enough to make you cry jest to look at him. I cooked up victuals
enough to last him a week, but that ain't no way for men-folks to live.
When he comes in at noon-time he washes up out by the pump, 'n' then he
steps int' the butt'ry 'n' pours some cold tea out the teapot 'n' takes
a drink of it, 'n' then a bite o' cold punkin pie 'n' then more tea, all
the time stan'in' up to the shelf 'stid o' sittin' down like a
Christian, and lookin' out the winder as if his mind was in Hard