“This one,” Mr. Murksom replied, and I could see he thought me a haggling, heartless person, “is something more--more permanent. That one won’t--well, that one is, as one might say, less able to withstand the--the inevitable conditions. Personally,” he, to my surprise, hastened to add, “I don’t wish for anything _too_ permanent. ‘Dust to dust,’ you know,” he murmured, as he pressed another button. This, I confess, surprised me very much, for it seemed to me that anyone who, for years and years, had buried several persons a day would necessarily fall into the habit of considering himself immortal. For a moment I thought of drawing him out on the subject; it occurred to me that a man whose whole life consisted of death ought to have made some illuminating reflections. Indeed, after I finally accomplished what I had come for, I did begin to ask a question, but was interrupted in the middle of it. For the young man suddenly appeared in the curtained doorway with something wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pink string. He was not exactly excited, he never could have been that, but he was, at least, natural. After our little conversation, I think he had concluded that there wasn’t much point in keeping it up any longer with me. This, at any rate, is the only way in which I could account for his ignoring my presence to the extent of making, in a moment, a most extraordinary and startling announcement. He held the brown paper parcel toward Mr. Murksom, who had turned inquiringly toward him, and then exclaimed, with a pleased smile: “They’ve found those legs.” “Ah,” sighed Mr. Murksom, “and where were they?” “In the wagon all the time. The horses just walked away from the house and a policeman stopped them as they were trying to get into a vacant lot to eat grass. Well,” he ended, in a gratified tone, “I’m glad they found those legs.” At this, I somewhat hurriedly said good afternoon, and withdrew. They were very little legs. I read about them in the paper the next day. WRITERS