They hastened to the funeral when Aunt Sa-

brina died.

Nephews, nieces, relatives—they came from

far and wide.

They hurried in by boat and train; they came

by stage and team,

In breasts a jealous bitter greed, in eyes a hun-

gry gleam.

I knew the most as decent men, their wives as

honest dames,

Who in the common run of things were careful

of their names.

And yet, alas, we sadly find that many who be-

have

As cooing doves in daily life are buzzards at

the grave.

So while the choir softly purred, and while the

parson prayed,

The lids of mourning eyes were raised and

sneaking glances strayed

From old-style clock to pantry shelf, from par-

lor set to rug,

And knitted brows weighed soberly how much

each heir could lug.

Anon the lustful glances crossed and scowl re-

plied to scowl,

And spoke as plain as though the look were

voiced in sullen growl:

Thus when the parson prayed, “Oh, Lord, take

Thou this way-worn soul,”

I caught a look that plainly spoke: “I’ll take

that china bowl.”

And this look said, “I speak for that,” and

that look spoke for this,

The while the parson droned of love and told

them of the bliss

That cometh after struggles here; “The peace

of rest,” he said,

And then each woman claimed through looks

her aunt’s goose-feather bed.

’Twas thus the kindred flocked to town when

Aunt Sabrina died,

Ostensibly to bury her, but really to divide.

No will was left,’twas catch as can; and each

and every heir,

Came in with desperate intent to scoop the big-

gest share.

They passed around with creaking shoes and

kissed the silent lip,

And pressed the limp, old, withered hand from

out whose jealous grip

The goods of earth had slipped away to heap a

funeral pyre,

A tinder pile where torch of Greed would start

a roaring fire.

They rode behind in solemn show and stood

around the grave,

Until the coffin sank from sight; and then each

jealous knave

Hopped back with great celerity in carriage and

in hack,

And folks who saw averred those heirs raced

horses going back.

This is no fairy tale, my friend! I’m giving

you the facts,

’Tis just an instance where the heirs came

round and brought an axe;

Where folks of pretty honest stripe could

hardly bear to wait

To decently inter the corpse ere carving the

estate;

—All ready at the prayer’s “Amen” to scratch

and haul and claw

With nails of jealous rancor and the talons of

the law.

My brother, I’ve a notion, that it is sinful pride

When we pose before the heathen as a highly

moral guide.

For here in old New England are some capers

that would—hush!—

This is strictly on the quiet—put a savage to

the blush.

You know that when a savage leaves his rela-

tives bereft,

There isn’t any scrapping over what the heathen

left.

They bury all his queer stone tools, his arrows

and his bow,

They stuff his pack with grub for snack; put

in his wampum “dough;”

They kill his horse and slay his dog and then

they sing a song,

And kill off all his weeping wives and send

them right along.

There’s no annoying probate court, no long,

litigious fuss,

No lawyer’s fees, no family row, no will-de-

stroying cuss.

The estate is executed in a brisk and thorough

style

And though some certain features suit all right

a heathen isle,

Some squeamish person might arise and prop-

erly complain

There’s too much execution for adoption here

in Maine.

So I’ll not commend the custom, yet I firmly

will abide

In the notion that we have no right to pose as

moral guide

To the heathen; for it’s evident, untutored

though they are,

The heirs at least show manners in Borrioboola

Gha.