“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.”