“Abel, that monument is a-goin’ to cost a sight.”
“Wall,” says he, “we can’t raise too high a one. Harrison deserved it
all.”
Says I, “Won’t that, and all these funeral expenses, take about all the
money he left?”
“Oh, no,” says he. “He had insured his life for a large amount, and it
all goes to his wife and children. He deserves a monument, if a man ever
did.”
“But,” says I, “don’t you believe that Harrison would rather have S.
Annie and the children settled down in a good little home, with sunthin’
left to take care of ’em, than to have all this money spent in perfectly
useless things?”
“_Useless!_” says Abel, turnin’ red. “Why,” says he, “if you wuzn’t a
near relation I should resent that speech bitterly.”
“Wall,” says I, “what do all these flowers, and empty carriages, and
silver-plated nails, and crape, and so forth,—what does it all amount
to?”
“Respect and honor to his memory,” says Abel, proudly.
Says I, “Such a life as Harrison’s had them; nobody could take ’em away,
nor demenish ’em. Such a brave, honest life is crowned with honor and
respect anyway. It don’t need no crape, nor flowers, nor monuments, to
win ’em. And at the same time,” says I, dreamily, “if a man is mean, no
amount of crape, or flower-pieces, or flowery sermons, or obituries, is
a-goin’ to cover up that meanness. A life has to be lived out-doors, as
it were: it can’t be hid. A string of mournin’ carriages, no matter how
long, hain’t a-goin’ to carry a dishonorable life into honor, and no
grave, no matter how low and humble it is, is a-goin’ to cover up a
honorable life.
“Such a life as Harrison’s don’t need no monument to carry up the story
of his virtues into the heavens: it is known there already. And them
that mourn his loss don’t need cold marble words to recall his goodness
and faithfulness. The heart where the shadow of his eternal absence has
fell, don’t need crape to make it darker.
“Harrison wouldn’t be forgot if S. Annie wore pure white from day to
day. No, nobody that knew Harrison, from all I have hearn of him, needs
crape to remind ’em that he wuz once here and now is gone.
“Howsomever, as far as that is concerned, I always feel that mourners
must do as they are a mind to about crape, with fear and tremblin’,—that
is, if they are well off, and _can_ do as they are a mind to; and the
same with monuments, flowers, empty coaches, etc. But in this case, Abel
Perry, I wouldn’t be a-doin’ my duty if I didn’t speak my mind. When I
look at these little helpless souls that are left in a cold world with
nothin’ to stand between them and want but the small means their pa
worked so hard for and left for the express purpose of takin’ care of
’em, it seems to me a foolish thing, and a cruel thing, to spend all
that money on what is entirely onnecessary.”
“Onnecessary!” says Abel, angrily. “Ag’in I say, Josiah Allen’s wife,
that if it wuzn’t for our close relationship I should turn on you. A
worm will turn,” says he, “if it is too hardly trampled on.”
“I hain’t trampled on you,” says I, “nor hain’t had no idea on’t. I wuz
only statin’ the solemn facts and truth of the matter. And you will see
it some time, Abel Perry, if you don’t now.”
Says Abel, “The worm has turned, Josiah Allen’s wife! Yes, I feel that I
have got to look now to more distant relations for comfort. Yes, the
worm has been stepped on too heavy.”
He looked cold, cold as a iceickle, almost. And I see that jest the few
words I had spoke, jest the slight hints I had gin, hadn’t been took as
they should have been took. So I said no more. For ag’in the remark of
that little bad boy came up in my mind, and restrained me from sayin’
any more.
Truly, as the young male child observed, “it wuzn’t my funeral.”
We went home almost immejiately afterwards, my heart nearly a-bleedin’
for the little children, poor little creeters, and Abel actin’ cold and
distant to the last.
And we hain’t seen ’em sense. But news has come from them, and come
straight. Josiah heerd to Jonesville, all about it.
The miller at Loontown wuz down to the Jonesville mill to get the loan
of some bags, and Josiah happened to be there to mill that day, and
heerd all about it.
Abel had got the monument. And the ornaments on it cost far more than he
expected. There wuz a wreath a-runnin’ round it clear from the bottom to
the top, and verses a kinder runnin’ up it at the same time. And it cost
fearful. Poetry a-runnin’ up, they say, costs far more than it duz on a
level.
Anyway, the two thousand dollars that wuz insured on Harrison’s life
wuzn’t quite enough to pay for it. But the sale of his law library and
the best of the housen stuff paid it. The nine hundred he left went,
every mite of it, to pay the funeral expenses, and mournin’ for the
family.
And, as bad luck always follers on in a procession, them mortgages of
Abel’ses all run out sort o’ together. His creditors sold him out, and
when his property was all disposed of it left him over fourteen hundred
dollars in debt.
The creditors acted perfectly greedy, so they say,—took everything they
could; and one of the meanest ones took that insane bedquilt that I
finished. That _wuz_ mean. They say Sally Ann crumpled right down when
that wuz took. Some say that they got holt of that tall weed of
Abel’ses, and some dispute it; some say that he wore it on the last ride
he took in Loontown.
But, howsomever, Abel wuz took sick, Sally Ann wuzn’t able to do
anything for their support, S. Annie wuz took down with the typus, and
so it happened the very day the monument wuz brought to the Loontown
Cemetery, Abel Perry’ses folks was carried to the county house for the
winter, S. Annie, the children, and all.
[Illustration: “It lay there by the side of the road, a great white
shape.”]
And it happened dretful cur’us, but the town hired that very team that
drawed the monument there, to take the family back.
It wuz a good team.
The monument wuzn’t set up, for they lacked money to pay for the
underpinnin’. (Wuzn’t it cur’us, Abel Perry never would think of the
underpinnin’ to anything?) But it lay there by the side of the road, a
great white shape.
And they say the children wuz skairt, and cried, when they went by
it,—cried and wept.
But I believe it wuz because they wuz cold and hungry that made ’em cry.
I don’t believe it wuz the monument.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).