THE poet got his facts awry, concerning what lives after death; the good
men do lives on for aye, the evil passes like a breath. A noble thought,
by thinker thunk, will live and flourish through the years; a thought
ignoble goes kerplunk, to perish in a pool of tears. Man dies, and folks
around his bed behold his tranquil, outworn clay; “We’ll speak no evil
of the dead, but recollect the good,” they say. Then one recalls some
noble trait which figured in the ice-cold gent. “He fixed the Widow
Johnsing’s gate, and wouldn’t charge a doggone cent.” “Oh, he was grand
when folks were ill; he’d stay and nurse them night and day, hand them
the bolus and the pill, and never hint around for pay.” “He ran three
blocks to catch my wig when April weather was at large.” “He butchered
Mrs. Jagway’s pig, and smoked the hams, and didn’t charge.” Thus men
conspire, to place on file and make a record of the good, and they’d
forget the mean or vile for which, perhaps, in life you stood. The
shining heroes we admire had faults and vices just like you; when they
concluded to expire, their failings kicked the bucket, too.
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