forcing the grisly object
into the resisting hands of the Cap'n. "Friends ordered it for me
the first time I died. I've carried it with me ever since."

"It must be a nice way of passin' a rainy Sunday," said the Cap'n,
sarcastically, pushing the plate back across the table; "set and look
at that and hum a pennyr'yal hymn! It's sartinly a rollickin' life
you're leadin', Mister Crymble."

Mr. Crymble did not retort. On the contrary he asked, mildly, gazing
on the scattered sheets of paper containing the selectman's efforts
at town-report composition, "Do you write poetry, sir?"

"Not by a--by a--" gasped the Cap'n, seeking ineffectually for some
phrase to express his ineffable disgust.

"I was in hopes you did," continued Mr. Crymble, "for I would like
a little help in finishing my epitaph. I compose slowly. I have worked
several years on this epitaph, but I haven't finished it to suit me.
What I have got done reads":

He unfolded a dirty strip of paper and recited:

"There is no sting in death;
Below this stone there lies
A man who lost his mortal breath
Three times--"

Mr. Crymble looked up from the paper.

"I have thought of 'And death defies.' But that might sound like
boasting."

"End it up, 'And still he lies,'" growled Cap'n Sproul. But the thin
man meekly evaded the sarcasm.

"That would be a repetition of the rhyme," he objected. "I see you
were right when you said you did not write poetry."

"P'r'aps I ain't no poet," cried the Cap'n, bridling. "But I'm the
first selectman of this town, and I've got considerable to do with
runnin' it and keepin' things straightened out. You may be dead, but
you ain't buried yet. I've got two errunts for you. You go hunt up
Bat Reeves and tell him that the weddin' next Tuesday is all off,
and for good reasons--and that you're one of the reasons, and that
there are nine others just as good but which you haven't got time
to repeat. Then you go home to your wife and settle down, throw away
that coffin-plate, tear up that epitaph, and stop this dyin' habit.
It's a bad one to get into."

"I won't do any such thing," returned the prodigal, stubbornly. "I
lived fifteen years with a woman that wouldn't let me smoke, busted
my cider jug in the cellar, jawed me from sun-up till bedtime, hid
my best clothes away from me like I was ten years old, wouldn't let
me pipe water from the spring, and stuck a jeroosly water-pail under
my nose every time I showed in