and cur'us; but we've all got to go, one time or another; they ain't no
getting around it."

There was another long pause; then,--

"What did he die of?"

I said I didn't know.

"How long has he ben dead?"

It seemed judicious to enlarge the facts to fit the probabilities; so I
said,

"Two or three days."

But it did no good; for Thompson received it with an injured look which
plainly said, "Two or three years, you mean." Then he went right along,
placidly ignoring my statement, and gave his views at considerable length
upon the unwisdom of putting off burials too long. Then he lounged off
toward the box, stood a moment, then came back on a sharp trot and
visited the broken pane, observing,

"'Twould 'a' ben a dum sight better, all around, if they'd started him
along last summer."

Thompson sat down and buried his face in his red silk handkerchief, and
began to slowly sway and rock his body like one who is doing his best to
endure the almost unendurable. By this time the fragrance--if you may
call it fragrance--was just about suffocating, as near as you can come at