ious
to get where she could see everything to the best advantage that she
crowded too near the bier, stepped on the sliding earth, and pitched
into the grave. As she weighed over two hundred pounds, and was in a
position of some disadvantage, it took five men to extricate her from
the dilemma, and the operation made a long and somewhat awkward break in
the religious services. Aunt Hitty always said of this catastrophe,
"If I'd 'a' ben Mis' Potter, I'd 'a' ben so mortified I believe I'd 'a'
said, 'I wa'n't plannin' to be buried, but now I'm in here I declare
I'll stop!'"

Old Mrs. Butterfield's funeral was not only voted an entire success by
the villagers, but the seal of professional approval was set upon it
by an undertaker from Saco, who declared that Mrs. Tarbox could make
a handsome living in the funeral line anywhere. Providence, who always
assists those who assist themselves, decreed that the niece Lyddy Ann
should not arrive until the aunt was safely buried; so, there being
none to resist her right or grudge her the privilege aunt Hitty, for the
first time in her life, rode in the next buggy to the hearse. Si, in his
best suit, a broad weed and weepers, drove Cyse Higgins's black colt,
and aunt Hitty was dressed in deep mourning, with the Widow Buzzell's
crape veil over her face, and in her hand a palmleaf fan tied with a
black ribbon. Her comment to Si, as she went to her virtuous couch that
night, was: "It was an awful dry funeral, but that was the only flaw in
it. It would 'a' ben perfect if there' ben anybody to shed tears. I
come pretty nigh it myself, though I ain't no relation, when Elder Weeks
said, 'You'll go round the house, my sisters, and Mis' Butterfield won't
be there; you'll go int' the orchard, and Mis' Butterfield won't be
there; you'll go int' the barn and Mis' Butterfield won't be there;
you'll go int' the shed, and Mis' Butterfield won't be there; you'll go
int' the hencoop, and Mis' Butterfield won't be there!' That would 'a'
drawed tears from a stone most, 'specially sence Mis' Butterfield set
such store by her hens."

And this is the way that Lyddy Butterfield came into her kingdom, a
little lone brown house on the river's brim. She had seen it only once
before when she had driven out from Portland, years ago, with her aunt.
Mrs. Butterfield lived in Portland, but spent her summers in Edgewood
on account of her chickens. She always explained that the country was
dreadful dull for her, but