See! the hearse leads. I begin with a design for a hearse. For Christ’s sake not black-- nor white either-- and not polished! Let it be weathered-- like a farm wagon-- with gilt wheels (this could be applied fresh at small expense) or no wheels at all: a rough dray to drag over the ground. Knock the glass out! My God--glass, my townspeople! For what purpose? Is it for the dead to look out or for us to see how well he is housed or to see the flowers or the lack of them-- or what? To keep the rain and snow from him? He will have a heavier rain soon: pebbles and dirt and what not. Let there be no glass-- and no upholstery phew! and no little brass rollers and small easy wheels on the bottom-- my townspeople what are you thinking of? A rough plain hearse then with gilt wheels and no top at all. On this the coffin lies by its own weight. No wreathes please-- especially no hot house flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes-- a few books perhaps-- God knows what! You realize how we are about these things my townspeople-- something will be found-- anything even flowers if he had come to that. So much for the hearse. For heaven’s sake though see to the driver! Take off the silk hat! In fact that’s no place at all for him-- up there unceremoniously dragging our friend out to his own dignity! Bring him down-- bring him down! Low and inconspicuous! I’d not have him ride on the wagon at all-- damn him-- the undertaker’s understrapper! Let him hold the reins and walk at the side and inconspicuously too! Then briefly as to yourselves: Walk behind-- as they do in France, seventh class, or if you ride Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience; sit openly-- to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut grief in? What--from us? We who have perhaps nothing to lose? Share with us share with us-- it will be money in your pockets. Go now I think you are ready. PROMENADE I. Well, mind, here we have our little son beside us: a little diversion before breakfast! Come, we’ll walk down the road till the bacon will be frying. We might better be idle? A poem might come of it? Oh, be useful. Save annoyance to Flossie and besides--the wind! It’s cold. It blows our old pants out! It makes us shiver! See the heavy trees shifting their weight before it. Let us be trees, an old house, a hill with grass on it! The baby’s arms are blue. Come, move! Be quieted! II.