Be it known that every negro loves to be buried behind white mules. It is his glory and his religion. This kind was hauling Uncle Pete. Now, a white mule is an old mule, and the older the mule, the bigger the fool, and when they peeped over the top of that hill, only to butt into a goggle-eyed demon, they did what mules always do. When I first saw them I was looking at the north end of that funeral procession. The next instant I was looking at the south end. And as the thing turned over once to adjust itself to different direction, a venerable old darky shot out of the rear end of that hearse, followed by a two-dollar coffin, and everything in that two miles of vehicles turned tail at the same time. I jumped out, grabbing my hunting coat, which I knew held a flask of whiskey, and rushed pell-mell through the woods for the creek bank. All I wanted was a little water in that whiskey. After fixing myself so I would not faint, I went back in time to see that everything had been fixed and the thing headed north again. “No, sah, it didn’t hurt Brer Pete,” the preacher was explaining to Horatius; “but it did upsot some ob de sisterin, an’ dey fainted when he come outer de back end ob dat kerridge so nachul an’ briefly. No, sah; nobody’s hurt, sah; it wuz jes’ a sivigerus accerdent.” “How much money have you, Horatius? I’ve spent all mine on dead and registered cats,” I said, bitterly. He had plenty, and tipped the whole two miles of them, as they passed by, singing: “Jordan is a hard road to travel.” And never had that old song seemed so real to me! “I stop right here,” I said, after assuring myself that I would not faint again. “The sun is setting; we’ve been out all day, and found nothing but a cat and a corpse.” Our experience had taken our nerve, and we waited two hours by the roadside, way after dark, until we’d seen everything we met in the morning go back home. Then we lit up and reached home at ten o’clock. The Angel and the Cherub met me at the gate, scared to death. “So glad you’re safe,” she cried, kissing me. “I know you’ve got a full bag—you’ve never failed, and, oh, Dearie, I’ve invited a dozen ladies over to-morrow for lunch, promising quail on toast—so I do hope nothing has happened.” By this time the Cherub was climbing over me, shouting: “Daddy, show me old Bob White—show me old Brer Rabbit.” The bitterness of it went into me. “Quail on toast?” I cried with sarcasm. “Change it now, my dear; write them all a note at once and tell them tom-cat is better, for it’s all I’ve killed to-day. Just make it tom-cat on toast.” I left her crying and saying she believed I had taken a drink. But that was false—to keep from suiciding, I had drunk the whole flask! TROTWOOD. THE NEW YEAR