 | Mark Twain's sketches, new and old |  |
THE UNDERTAKER'S CHAT.
“NOW, that corpse,” said the undertaker, patting the folded hands of
deceased approvingly, “was a brick—every way you took him he was
a brick. He was so real accommodating, and so modest-like and
simple in his last moments. Friends wanted metallic burial case—nothing else
would do. I couldn't get it. There warn't going to be time—anybody could
see that.
“Corpse said never mind, shake him up some kind of a box he could stretch
out in comfortable, he warn't particular 'bout the general style of it. Said he
went more on room than style, any way in a last final container.
“Friends wanted a silver door-plate on the coffin, signifying who he was and
wher' he was from. Now you know a fellow couldn't roust out such a gaily
thing as that in a little country town like this. What did corpse say?
“Corpse said, whitewash his old canoe and dob his address and general destination
onto it with a blacking brush and a stencil plate, 'long with a verse from
some likely hymn or other, and p'int him for the tomb, and mark him C. O. D.,
and just let him flicker. He warn't distressed any more than you be—on the
contrary just as ca'm and collected as a hearse-horse; said he judged that wher'
he was going to a body would find it considerable better to attract attention by
a picturesque moral character than a natty burial case with a swell door-plate
on it.
“Splendid man, he was. I'd druther do for a corpse like that 'n any I've
tackled in seven year. There's some satisfaction in buryin' a man like that.
You feel that what you're doing is appreciated. Lord bless you, so's he got
planted before he sp'iled, he was perfectly satisfied; said his relations meant
well, perfectly well, but all them preparations was bound to delay the thing
a clear head as what he had—and so ca'm and so cool. Just a hunk of brains—
that is what he was. Perfectly awful. It was a ripping distance from one end
of that man's head to t'other. Often and over again he's had brain fever a-raging
in one place, and the rest of the pile didn't know anything about it—
didn't affect it any more than an Injun insurrection in Arizona affects the
Atlantic States.
“Well, the relations they wanted a big funeral, but corpse said he was down on
flummery—didn't want any procession—fill the hearse full of mourners, and get
out a stern line and tow him behind. He was the most down on style of any
remains I ever struck. A beautiful simple-minded creature—it was what he
was, you can depend on that. He was just set on having things the way he
wanted them, and he took a solid comfort in laying his little plans. He had me
measure him and take a whole raft of directions; then he had the minister stand
up behind a long box with a table-cloth over it, to represent the coffin, and
read his funeral sermon, saying `Angcore, angcore!' at the good places, and
making him scratch out every bit of brag about him, and all the hifalutin; and
then he made them trot out the choir so's he could help them pick out the tunes
for the occasion, and he got them to sing `Pop Goes the Weasel,' because he'd
always liked that tune when he was down-hearted, and solemn music made him
sad; and when they sung that with tears in their eyes (because they all loved
him), and his relations grieving around, he just laid there as happy as a bug,
and trying to beat time and showing all over how much he enjoyed it; and
presently he got worked up and excited, and tried to join in, for mind you he
was pretty proud of his abilities in the singing line; but the first time he opened
his mouth and was just going to spread himself his breath took a walk.
“I never see a man snuffed out so sudden. Ah, it was a great loss—it was a
powerful loss to this poor little one-horse town. Well, well, well, I hain't got
time to be palavering along here—got to nail on the lid and mosey along
with him; and if you'll just give me a lift we'll skeet him into the hearse and
meander along. Relations bound to have it so—don't pay no attention to dying
injunctions, minute a corpse's gone; but, if I had my way, if I didn't respect his
a corpse wants done for his comfort is little enough matter, and a man
hain't got to right to deceive him or take advantage of him; and whatever a
corpse trusts me to do I'm a-going to do, you know, even if it's to stuff him and
paint him yaller and keep him for a keepsake—you hear me me!”
He cracked his whip and went lumbering away with his ancient ruin of a
hearse, and I continued my walk with a valuable lesson learned—that a healthy
and wholesome cheerfulness is not necessarily impossible to any occupation.
The lesson is likely to be lasting, for it will take many months to obliterate the
memory of the remarks and circumstances that impressed it.
| Mark Twain's sketches, new and old | |