Rebel mourner, cease your weepin'.
You too must die.


This was a favourite funeral hymn. The only difficulty would be in
keeping Aunt Becky Burnham from pitching it in a key where nobody but
a soprano skylark, accustomed to warble at a great height, could
possibly sing it. It was generally given at the grave, when Elder
Weeks officiated; but it never satisfied Aunt Hitty, because the good
elder always looked so unpicturesque when he threw a red bandanna
handkerchief over his head before beginning the twenty-seven verses.
After the long prayer, she would have Almira Berry give for a solo -


This gro-o-oanin' world's too dark and
dre-e-ar for the saints' e-ter-nal rest.


This hymn, if it did not wholly reconcile one to death, enabled one
to look upon life with sufficient solemnity. It was a thousand
pities, she thought, that the old hearse was so shabby and rickety,
and that Gooly Eldridge, who drove it, would insist on wearing a
faded peach-blow overcoat. It was exasperating to think of the
public spirit at Egypt, and contrast it with the state of things at
Pleasant River. In Egypt, they had sold the old hearse-house for a
sausage-shop, and now they were having "hearse sociables" every month
to raise money for a new one.

All these details flew through Aunt Hitty's mind in fascinating