The grave--a rather short one--was in somewhat better repair than was
consistent with its obvious age and isolation, and my eyes, I dare
say, widened a trifle at a clump of unmistakable garden flowers
showing evidence of recent watering. The stone had clearly enough
done duty once as a doorstep. In its front was carved, or rather
dug, an inscription. It read thus:


AH WEE--CHINAMAN.

Age unknown. Worked for Jo. Dunfer.
This monument is erected by him to keep the Chink's memory green.
Likewise as a warning to Celestials not to take on airs. Devil take
'em!
She Was a Good Egg.


I cannot adequately relate my astonishment at this uncommon
inscription! The meagre but sufficient identification of the
deceased; the impudent candor of confession; the brutal anathema; the
ludicrous change of sex and sentiment--all marked this record as the
work of one who must have been at least as much demented as bereaved.
I felt that any further disclosure would be a paltry anti-climax, and
with an unconscious regard for dramatic effect turned squarely about
and walked away. Nor did I return to that part of the county for
four years.


II--WHO DRIVES SANE OXEN SHOULD HIMSELF BE SANE