I was hungry enough to eat a coffin handle, and so I looked at him and extended my hand. He was a handsome chap, with a grey mustache. His black coat was buttoned high. He was extra neat for a country merchant, and chewed his tobacco surreptitiously. His face was not so bony and stern as you might think. I gave him an odd copy of the _Tree of Laughing Bells_, still remaining by me. He looked at the outside long, doing the cover more than justice. Then he opened it, with a certain air of delicate appreciation. I urged him to postpone reading the thing till I was gone. His store was high and long and narrow and cool. There was a counter to the west, a counter to the east. Behind the western one were tall coffin cupboards. As he proudly opened and shut them, one could not but notice the length of his fingers and their dexterity. He showed plain coffins and splendid coffins. He unscrewed the lid of one, that I might see the silky cushions within. They looked easier than last night’s lounge. As he stepped across what might be called the international date line of the store, and entered the hemisphere of groceries, he began to look as though he would indulge in a merry quip. A faint flush came to his white countenance, that shone among the multi-colored packages. Before us were the supplies of a rural general store, from the kitchen mop to the blue parlor vase. Hanging from the ceiling was an array of the flamboyant varnished posters of the seedsmen, with pictures of cut watermelons, blood-red, and portraits of beets, cabbages, pumpkins. I read his home-made sign aloud: “I guarantee every seed in the store. Pansy seeds a specialty.” “Not that they all grow,” he explained. “But the guarantee keeps up the confidence of the customers. I have made more off of vegetable and flower seeds this year than caskets.” He pulled out a chip plate and fed me with dried beef, sliced thin. He smiled broadly, and set down a jar. The merry quip had arrived. “Why,” he asked, “is a stick of candy like a race-horse?” I remained silent, but looked anxious to know. Delighted with himself, he gave the ancient answer, and with it several sticks of candy. Kind reader, if you do not know the answer to the riddle, ask your neighbor. There was no end of sweets. He skilfully sliced fresh bread, and spread it with butter and thick honey-comb. With much self-approval he insisted on crowding my pockets with supper. “Nobody knows how they will treat you around Oil City. _I go often, but never for pleasure. Only on funeral business._” He gave me pocketfuls of the little animal crackers, so daintily cut out, that used to delight all of us as children. Since he insisted I take something more, I took figs and dates. He held up an animal cracker, shaped like a cow, and asked: “When was beefsteak the highest?” I ventured to give the answer.