Mr. Hunker's Mourner.
Strolling through Lone Mountain cemetery one
day my attention was arrested by the inconsolable
grief of a granite angel bewailing the loss of “Jacob
Hunker, aged 67.” The attitude of utter dejection,
the look of matchless misery upon that angel's face
sank into my heart like water into a sponge. I
was about to offer some words of condolence when
another man, similarly affected, got in before me,
and laying a rather unsteady hand upon the celestial
shoulder tipped back a very senile hat, and
pointing to the name on the stone remarked with
the most exact care and scrupulous accent: “Friend
of yours, perhaps; been dead long?”
There was no reply; he continued: “Very worthy
man, that Jake; knew him up in Tuolumne. Good
feller—Jake.” No response: the gentleman settled
his hat still farther back, and continued with a trifle
less exactness of speech: “I say, young wom'n, Jake
was my pard in the mines. Goo' fell'r I 'bserved!”
The last sentence was shot straight into the
celestial ear at short range. It produced no
effect. The gentleman's patience and rhetorical
vigilance were now completely exhausted. He
walked round, and planting himself defiantly in
front of the vicarious mourner, he stuck his hands
doggedly into his pockets and delivered the following
rebuke, like the desultory explosions of a bunch
of damaged fire-crackers: “It wont do, old girl;
ef Jake knowed how you's treatin' his old pard he'd
jest git up and snatch you bald headed—he would!
You ain't no friend o' his'n and you ain't yur fur no
good—you bet! Now you jest sling your swag
an' bolt back to heav'n, or I'm hanged ef I don't
have suthin' worse'n horse-stealin' to answer fur,
this time.”
And he took a step forward. At this point I
interfered.
