nobody in our county could get himself decently born or
married, or buried, without a due and proper notice in the _Clarion_.
To the country folks an obituary notice in its columns was as much a
matter of form as a clergyman at one's obsequies. It simply wasn't
respectable to be buried without proper comment in the _Clarion_.
Wherefore the paper always held open half a column for obituary
notices and poetry.

These dismal productions had first brought the _Clarion_ to Mr.
Flint's notice. He used to snigger at sight of the paper. He said it
made him sure the dead walked. He cut out all those lugubrious and
home-made verses and pasted them in a big black scrapbook. He had a
fashion of strolling down to the paper's office and snipping out all
such notices and poems from its country exchanges. A more ghoulish and
fearsome collection than he acquired I never elsewhere beheld. It was
a taste which astonished me. Sometimes he would gleefully read aloud
one which particularly delighted him:

"A Christian wife and offspring seven
Mourn for John Peters who has gone to heaven.
But as for him we are sure he can weep no more,
He is happy with the lovely angels on that bright shore."{~DAGGER~}

{~DAGGER~} Heaven.

My mother was horrified. She said, severely, that she couldn't to save
her life see why any mortal man should snigger because a Christian
wife and children seven mourned for John Peters who had gone to
heaven. The Butterfly Man looked up, meekly. And of a sudden my mother
stopped short, regarded him with open mouth and eyes, and retired
hastily. He resumed his pasting.

"I've got a hankering for what you might call grave poetry," said he,
pensively. "Yes, sir; an obituary like that is like an all-day sucker
to me. Say, don't you reckon they make the people they're written
about feel glad they're dead and done for good with folks that could
spring something like that on a poor stiff? Wait a minute, parson--you
can't afford to miss Broken-hearted Admirer:

"Miss Matty, I watched thee laid in the gloomy grave's embrace,
Where nobody can evermore press your hand or your sweet face.
When you were alive I often thought of thee with fond pride,
And meant to call around some night & ask you to be my loving Bride.
"But alas, there is a sorrowful sadness in my bosom to-day,
For I never did it & now can never really know what you would say.

Miss Matty, the time may come when I c