I was out there to-day to a burying.

Grass is coming up charming on your lot, and I noticed a blackberry bush growing out of Mr.Smyth's grave.

He was fond of 'em, I reckon.

There they were lying, Smith and Smyth, and McFadden and the other Smyth, all four of them.

No woman could have done fairer with those men than you did, ma'am; those mahogany coffins with silver-plated handles were good enough for the patriarchs and prophets, and the President of the United States himself daren't ask anything better than a hearse with real ostrich feathers and horses that are black as ink all over.
"I know when we laid Mr.McFadden out I said to Tim Lafferty, my foreman, that the affection you showed in having that man buried in style almost made me cry; but I never fully realized what woman's love really is till you made me line Mr.Smith's coffin with white satin and let in a French plate-glass skylight over the countenance.