Now that she was quite alone, it was
so "nice and lively; all the funerals passed by." The one buried
that day I had known, or she had known me in my boyhood, and it
was expected that I would attend. My mother sent the wreath that
belongs,--there is both sense and sentiment in flowers at a funeral
when they are wreathed by the hands of those who loved the dead, as
is still the custom here; none where they are bought at a florist's
and paid for with a growl,--and we stood around the coffin and sang
the old hymns, then walked behind it, two by two, men and women,
to the grave, singing as we passed through the gate.
"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The clods rang upon
the coffin with almost cheerful sound, for she whose mortal body
lay within was full of years and very tired. The minister paused.
From among the mourners came forth the nearest relative and stood
by the grave, hat in hand. Ours were all off. "From my heart I thank
you, neighbors all," he said, and it was over. We waited to shake
hands, to speculate on the weather, safe topic even at funerals;
then went each to his own.
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