Josiah Allen and me had visitors, along the last of the winter,—Abel Perry’ses folks from ’way out beyond Loontown.

They come in good sperits and the mornin’ train, and spent three days and three nights with us.

You see, they wuz relations of ourn, and had been for some time, entirely onbeknown to us, and they come a-huntin’ us up. They said “they thought relations ort to be hunted up, and hang together.” They said “the idee of huntin’ us up had come to ’em after readin’ my book.”

They told me so, and I said, “Wall.”

I didn’t add nor demenish to that one “Wall.” For I didn’t want to act too backward, nor too forward. I jest kep’ kinder neutral, and said, “Wall.”

You see, Abel’s father’s sister-in-law wuz step-mother to my aunt’s second-cousin on her father’s side. And Abel said that “he had felt more and more, as years went by, that it wuz a burnin’ shame for relations to not know and love each other.” He said “he felt that he loved Josiah and me dearly.”

I didn’t say right out whether it wuz reciprokated or not. I kinder said, “Wall,” ag’in.

And I told Josiah, in perfect confidence and the wood-house chamber, “that I had seen nearer relations than Mr. Perry’ses folks wuz to us.”

Howsumever, I done well by ’em. Josiah killed a fat turkey, and I baked it, and done other things for their comfort, and we had quite a good time.

Abel wuz ruther flowery and enthusiastick, and his mouth and voice wuz ruther large, but he meant well, I should judge, and we had quite a good time.

She wuz very freckled, and a second-day Baptist by perswasion, and was piecin’ up a crazy bedquilt. She went a-visitin’ a good deal, and got pieces of the wimmen’s dresses where she visited for blocks. So it wuz quite a savin’ bedquilt, and very good-lookin’, considerin’.

But to resoom and continue on. Abel’s folks made us promise on our two sacred honors, Josiah’s honor and mine, that we would pay back the visit, for, as Abel said, “for relatives to live so clost to each other, and not visit back and forth, wuz a burnin’ shame and a disgrace.” And Josiah promised that we would go right away after sugarin’.

We wouldn’t promise on the New Testament, as Abel wanted us to (he is dretful enthusiastick); but we gin good plain promises that we would go, and laid out to keep our two words.

So along a week or so after sugarin’, Josiah beset me one day to go over to Mr. Perry’ses.

Josiah liked Abel; there wuz sunthin’ in his intense enthusiastick nature and extravagant methods that wuz congenial to Josiah.

So I bein’ agreeable to the idee, we set out after dinner, a-layin’ out to be gone two nights and one hull day, and two parts of days, a-goin’ and a-comin’ back.

Wall, we got there onexpected, as they had come onto us. And we found ’em plunged into trouble.

Their only child, a girl, who had married a young lawyer of Loontown, had jest lost her husband with the typus, and they wuz a-makin’ preparations for the funeral when we got there. She and her husband had come home on a visit, and he wuz took down bed-sick there and died.

I told ’em I felt like death to think I had descended down onto ’em at such a time.

But Abel said he wuz jest despatchin’ a messenger for us when we arrove, for, he said, “in a time of trouble, then wuz the time, if ever, that a man wanted his near relations clost to him.”

And he said “we had took a load offen him by appearin’ jest as we did, for there would have been some delay in gettin’ us there, if the messenger had been despatched.”

He said “that mornin’ he had felt so bad that he wanted to die,—it seemed as if there wuzn’t nothin’ left for him to live for; but now he felt that he had sunthin’ to live for, now his relatives wuz gethered round him.”

Josiah shed tears to hear Abel go on. I myself didn’t weep none, but I wuz glad if we could be any comfort to ’em, and told ’em so.

And I told Sally Ann, that wuz Abel’ses wife, that I would do anything that I could to help ’em.

And she said “everything wuz a-bein’ done that wuz necessary. She didn’t know of but one thing that wuz likely to be overlooked and neglected, and that wuz the crazy bedquilt.” She said “she would love to have that finished, to throw over a lounge in the settin’-room, that wuz frayed out on the edges. And if I felt like it, it would be a great relief to her to have me take it right offen her hands, and finish it.”

So I took out my thimble and needle (I always carry such necessaries with me, in a huzzy made expressly for that purpose), and I sot down and went to piecin’ up. There wuz seventeen blocks to piece up, each one crazy as a loon to look at, and it wuz all to set together.

She had the pieces, for she had been off on a visitin’ tower the week before, and collected of ’em.

So I sot in quiet and the big cheer in the settin’-room, and pieced up, and see the preparations a-goin’ on round us.

I found that Abel’ses folks lived in a house big and showy-lookin’, but not so solid and firm as I had seen.

It wuz one of the houses, outside and inside, where more pains had been took with the porticos and ornaments than with the underpinnin’.

It had a showy and kind of a shaky look. And I found that that extended to Abel’ses business arraingments. Amongst the other ornaments of his buildin’s wuz mortgages, quite a lot of ’em, and of almost every variety. He had gin his only child S. Annie (she wuz named after her mother Sally Ann, but wrote it this way),—he had gin S. Annie a showy education, a showy weddin’, and a showy settin’-out. But she had had the good luck to marry a sensible man, though poor.

He took S. Annie, and the brackets, and piano, and hangin’ lamps, and baskets, and crystal bead lambrequins, her father had gin her, moved ’em all into a good sensible small house, and went to work to get a practice and a livin’. He wuz a lawyer by perswasion.

Wall, he worked hard, day and night, for three little children come to ’em pretty fast, and S. Annie consumed a good deal in trimmin’s and cheap lace to ornament ’em: she wuz her father’s own girl for ornament. But he worked so hard, and had so many irons in the fire, and kep ’em all so hot, that he got a good livin’ for ’em, and begun to lay up money towards byin’ ’em a house, a home.

He talked a sight, so folks said that knew him well, about his consumin’ desire and aim to get his wife and children into a little home of their own, into a safe little haven, where they could be a little sheltered from the storms of life if the big waves should wash him away. They say that that wuz on his mind day and night, and wuz what nerved his hand so in the fray, and made him so successful.

Wall, he had laid up about nine hundred dollars towards a home, every dollar on it earned by hard work and consecrated by this deathless hope and affection. The house he had got his mind on only cost about a thousand dollars. Loontown property is cheap.

Wall, he had laid up nine hundred, and wuz a-beginnin’ to save on the last hundred, for he wouldn’t run in debt a cent anyway, when he wuz took voyalent sick there to Abel’ses: he and S. Annie had come home for a visit of a day or two; and he bein’ so run down, and weak with his hard day work, and his night work, that he suckumbed to his sickness, and passed away the day before I got there.

Wall, S. Annie wuz jest overcome with grief the day I got there, but the day follerin’ she begun to take some interest, and help her father in makin’ preparations for the funeral.

The body wuz embalmed, accordin’ to Abel’ses and S. Annie’s wish, and the funeral wuz to be on the Sunday follerin’, and on that Abel and S. Annie now bent their energies.

To begin with, S. Annie had a hull suit of clear crape made for herself, with a veil that touched the ground; she also had three other suits commenced, for more common wear, trimmed heavy with crape, one of which she ordered for sure the next week, for she said “she couldn’t stir out of the house in any other color but black.”

I knew jest how dear crape wuz, and I tackled her on the subject, and says I,—

“Do you know, S. Annie, those dresses of yourn will cost a sight?”

“Cost?” says she, a-bustin’ out a-cryin’. “What do I care about cost? I will do everything I can to respect his memory. I do it in remembrance of him.”

Says I, gently, “S. Annie, you wouldn’t forget him if you wuz dressed in white. And as for respect, such a life as his, from all I hear of it, don’t need crape to throw respect on it: it commands respect, and gets it from everybody.”

“But,” says Abel, “it would look dretful odd to the neighbors if she didn’t dress in black.” Says he, in a skairful tone, and in his intense way,—

“I would ruther resk my life than to have her fail in duty in this way: it would make talk!” And says he, “What is life worth when folks talk?”

I turned around the crazed block, and tackled it in a new place (more luny than ever it seemed to me), and says I, mekanickly,—

“It is pretty hard work to keep folks from talkin’, to keep ’em from sayin’ sunthin’.”

But I see from their looks it wouldn’t do to say anything more, so I had to set still and see it go on.

At that time of year flowers wuz dretful high, but S. Annie and Abel had made up their minds that they must have several flower-pieces from the city nighest to Loontown.

One wuz goin’ to be a gate ajar, and one wuz to be a gate wide open. And one wuz to be a big book. Abel asked me what book I thought would be prefferable to represent. And I mentioned the Bible.

But Abel says, “No, he didn’t think he would have a Bible; he didn’t think it would be appropriate, seein’ the deceased wuz a lawyer.” He said “he hadn’t quite made up his mind what book to have. But anyway it wuz to be in flowers,—beautiful flowers.” Another piece wuz to be his name in white flowers on a purple background of pansies. His name wuz William Henry Harrison Rockyfeller. And I says to Abel,—

“To save expense, you will probable have the moneygram W. H. H. R.?”

“Oh, no,” says he.

Says I, “Then the initials of his given names, and the last name in full.”

“Oh, no,” he said; “it wuz S. Annie’s wish, and hisen, that the hull name should be put on. They thought it would show more respect.”

I says, “Where Harrison is now, that hain’t a-goin’ to make any difference;” and, says I, “Abel, flowers are dretful high this time of year, and it is a long name.”

But Abel said ag’in that he didn’t care for expense, so long as respect wuz done to the memory of the deceased. He said that he and S. Annie both felt that it wuz their wish to have the funeral go ahead of any other that had ever took place in Loontown or Jonesville. He said that S. Annie felt that it wuz all that wuz left her now in life, the memory of such a funeral as he deserved.

Says I, “There is his children left for her to live for,” says I,—“three little bits of his own life, for her to nourish, and cherish, and look out for.”

“Yes,” says Abel. “And she will do that nobly, and I will help her. They are all goin’ to the funeral, too, in deep-black dresses.” He said “they wuz too little to realize it now, but in later and maturer years it would be a comfort to ’em to know they had took part in such a funeral as that wuz goin’ to be, and wuz dressed in black.”

“Wall,” says I (in a quite onassumin’ way I would gin little hints of my mind on the subject), “I am afraid that will be about all the comforts of life the poor little children will ever have,” says I. “It will if you buy many more flower-pieces and crape dresses.”

Abel said “it wouldn’t take much crape for the children’s dresses, they wuz so little, only the baby’s: that would have to be long.”

Says I, “The baby would look better in white, and it will take sights of crape for a long baby dress.”

“Yes, but S. Annie can use it afterwards for veils. She is very economical; she takes it from me. And she feels jest as I do, that the baby must wear it in respect to her father’s memory.”

Says I, “The baby don’t know crape from a clothes-pin.”

“No,” says Abel, “but in after-years the thought of the respect she showed will sustain her.”

“Wall,” says I, “I guess she won’t have much besides thoughts to live on, if things go on in this way.”

I would give little hints in this way, but they wuzn’t took. Things went right on as if I hadn’t spoke. And I couldn’t contend, for truly, as a bad little boy said once on a similar occasion, “it wuzn’t my funeral,” so I had to set and work on that insane bedquilt and see it go on. But I sithed constant and frequent, and when I wuz all alone in the room I indulged in a few low groans.

Two dress-makers wuz in the house, to stay all the time till the dresses wuz done; and clerks would come around, if not oftener, with packages of mournin’ goods and mournin’ jewelry, and mournin’ handkerchiefs, and mournin’ stockin’s, and mournin’ stockin’-supporters, and mournin’ safety-pins, and etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.

Every one of ’em, I knew, a-wrenchin’ boards offen the sides of that house that Harrison had worked so hard to get for his wife and little ones.

Wall, the day of the funeral come. It wuz a wet, drizzly day, but Abel wuz up early, to see that everything wuz as he wanted it to be.

As far as I wuz concerned, I had done my duty, for the crazy bedquilt wuz done; and though brains might totter as they looked at it, I felt that it wuzn’t my fault. Sally Ann spread it out with complacency over the lounge, and thanked me, with tears in her eyes, for my noble deed.

Along quite early in the mornin’, before the show commenced, I went in to see Harrison.

He lay there calm and peaceful, with a look on his face as if he had got away, at last from a atmosphere of show and sham, and had got into the great Reality of life.

It wuz a good face, and the worryment and care that folks told me had been on it for years had all faded away. But the look of determination, and resolve, and bravery,—that wuz ploughed too deep in his face to be smoothed out, even by the mighty hand that had lain on it. The resolved look, the brave look with which he had met the warfare of life, toiled for victory over want, toiled to place his dear and helpless ones in a position of safety,—that look wuz on his face yet, as if the deathless hope and endeavor had gone on into eternity with him.

And by the side of him, on a table, wuz the big high flower-pieces, beginnin’ already to wilt and decay.

Wall, it’s bein’ such a oncommon bad day, there wuzn’t many to the funeral. But we rode to the meetin’-house in Loontown in a state and splendor that I never expect to ag’in. Abel had hired eleven mournin’-coaches, and the day bein’ so bad, and so few a-turnin’ out to the funeral, that in order to occupy all the coaches, and Abel thought it would look better and more popular to have ’em all occupied, we divided up, and Josiah went in one, alone, and lonesome as a dog, as he said, afterwards to me. And I sot up straight and uncomfortable in another one of ’em, stark alone.

Abel had one to himself, and his wife another one, and two old maids, sisters of Abel’ses who always made a point of attendin’ funerals, they each one of ’em had one. S. Annie and her children of course had the first one, and then the minister had one, and one of the trustees in the neighborhood had another: so we lengthened out into quite a crowd, all a-follerin’ the shiny hearse, and the casket all covered with showy plated nails. I thought of it in jest that way, for Harrison, I knew, the real Harrison, wuzn’t there. No, he wuz far away,—as far as the Real is from the Unreal.

Wall, we filed into the Loontown meetin’-house in pretty good shape, though Abel hadn’t no black handkerchief, and he looked worried about it. He had shed tears a-tellin’ me about it, what a oversight it wuz, while I wuz a-fixin’ on his mournin’ weed. He took it into his head to have a deeper weed at the last minute, so I fixed it on. He had the weed come up to the top of his hat and lap over. I never see so tall a weed. But it suited Abel; he said “he thought it showed deep respect.”

“Wall,” says I, “it is a deep weed, anyway,—the deepest I ever see.” And he said, as I wuz a-sewin’ it on, he a-holdin’ his hat for me, “that Harrison deserved it; he deserved it all.”

But, as I say, he shed tears to think that his handkerchief wuzn’t black-bordered. He said “it wuz a fearful oversight; it would probably make talk.”

But I says, “Mebby it won’t be noticed.”

“Yes, it will,” says he. “It will be noticed.” And says he, “I don’t care about myself, but I am afraid it will reflect onto Harrison. I am afraid they will think it shows a lack of respect for him. For Harrison’s sake I feel cut down about it.”

And I says, “I guess where Harrison is now, the color of a handkerchief-border hain’t a-goin’ to make much difference to him either way.”

And I don’t s’pose it wuz noticed much, for there wuzn’t more’n ten or a dozen folks there when we went in. We went in in Injin file mostly, by Abel’ses request, so’s to make more show. And as a procession we wuz middlin’ long, but ruther thin.

The sermon was not so very good as to quality, but abundant as to quantity. It wuz, as nigh as I could calkerlate, about a hour and three-quarters long. Josiah whispered to me along about the last that “we had been there over seven hours, and his legs wuz paralyzed.”

And I whispered back that “seven hours would take us into the night, and to stretch his feet out and pinch ’em;” which he did.

But it wuz long and tejus. My feet got to sleep twice, and I had hard work to wake ’em up ag’in. The sermon meant to be about Harrison, I s’pose; he did talk a sight about him, and then he kinder branched off onto politics, and then the Inter-State bill; he kinder favored it, I thought.

Wall, we all got drippin’ wet a-goin’ home, for Abel insisted on our gettin’ out at the grave, for he had hired some oncommon high singers (high every way, in price and in notes) to sing at the grave.

And so we disembarked in the drippin’ rain, on the wet grass, and formed a procession ag’in. And Abel had a long exercise right there in the rain. But the singin’ wuz kinder jerky, and cur’us, and they had got their pay beforehand, so they hurried it through. And one man, the tenor, who wuz dretful afraid of takin’ cold, hurried through his part, and got through first, and started on a run for the carriage. The others stood their grounds till the piece wuz finished, but they put in some dretful cur’us quavers. I believe they had had chills: it sounded like it.

Take it altogether, I don’t believe anybody got much satisfaction out of it, only Abel. S. Annie sp’ilt her dress and bonnet entirely—they wuz wilted all down; and she ordered another suit jest like it before she slept.

Wall, the next mornin’ early two men come with plans for monuments. Abel had telegrafted to ’em to come with plans and bid for the job of furnishin’ the monument.

And after a good deal of talk on both sides, Abel and S. Annie selected one that wuz very high and p’inted.

The men stayed to dinner, and I said to Abel, out to one side,—

“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.

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.