I
It was a chill Harlem evening. The Undertaker sat in his easy chair smoking his pipe of clay. About him were ranged the tools and trappings of his gruesome art. On trestles, over in the corner's gliding shadows, lay the remains he had just been monkeying with.
At last, as one who reviews his work, the Undertaker arose, and scanned the wan map of the Departed.
“He makes a great front,” mused the Undertaker. “He looks out of sight, and it ought to fetch her.”
Back to his chair roamed the Undertaker. As he seated himself he touched a bell. The Poet of the establishment glided dreamily in. The Undertaker, not only straightened the kinks out of corpses to the Queen's taste, but he furnished epitaphs, and as well, verses for those grief-bitten. These latter were to run in the papers with the funeral notice.
“Have youse torn off that epitaph for his jiblets?” asked the Undertaker, nodding towards Deceased.
“What was it you listed for?” asked the Poet.
“D' epitaph for William Henry Weld,” replied the Undertaker. The Poet passed over the desired epitaph.
William Henry Weld.
(Aged 26 years.)
His race he win with pain and sin,
At Satan he did mock;
St. Peter said as he let him in:
“It's Willie, in a walk!”
“You're a wonder!” cried the Undertaker, when he had finished the perusal, and he gave the Poet the glad hand. “Here's d' price. Go and fill your tank.”
“That should win her,” reflected the Undertaker, when the poet had wended his way; “that ought to leave her on both sides of d' road. What I've done for Deceased, and that epitaph should knock her silly. She shall be mine!”