THE HEIRS
They hastened to the funeral when Aunt Sa-
brina died.
Nephews, nieces, relatives—they came from
far and wide.
They hurried in by boat and train; they came
by stage and team,
In breasts a jealous bitter greed, in eyes a hun-
gry gleam.
I knew the most as decent men, their wives as
honest dames,
Who in the common run of things were careful
of their names.
And yet, alas, we sadly find that many who be-
have
As cooing doves in daily life are buzzards at
the grave.
So while the choir softly purred, and while the
parson prayed,
The lids of mourning eyes were raised and
sneaking glances strayed
From old-style clock to pantry shelf, from par-
lor set to rug,
And knitted brows weighed soberly how much
each heir could lug.
Anon the lustful glances crossed and scowl re-
plied to scowl,
And spoke as plain as though the look were
voiced in sullen growl:
Thus when the parson prayed, “Oh, Lord, take
Thou this way-worn soul,”
I caught a look that plainly spoke: “I’ll take
that china bowl.”
And this look said, “I speak for that,” and
that look spoke for this,
The while the parson droned of love and told
them of the bliss
That cometh after struggles here; “The peace
of rest,” he said,
And then each woman claimed through looks
her aunt’s goose-feather bed.
’Twas thus the kindred flocked to town when
Aunt Sabrina died,
Ostensibly to bury her, but really to divide.
No will was left,’twas catch as can; and each
and every heir,
Came in with desperate intent to scoop the big-
gest share.
They passed around with creaking shoes and
kissed the silent lip,
And pressed the limp, old, withered hand from
out whose jealous grip
The goods of earth had slipped away to heap a
funeral pyre,
A tinder pile where torch of Greed would start
a roaring fire.
They rode behind in solemn show and stood
around the grave,
Until the coffin sank from sight; and then each
jealous knave
Hopped back with great celerity in carriage and
in hack,
And folks who saw averred those heirs raced
horses going back.
This is no fairy tale, my friend! I’m giving
you the facts,
’Tis just an instance where the heirs came
round and brought an axe;
Where folks of pretty honest stripe could
hardly bear to wait
To decently inter the corpse ere carving the
estate;
—All ready at the prayer’s “Amen” to scratch
and haul and claw
With nails of jealous rancor and the talons of
the law.
My brother, I’ve a notion, that it is sinful pride
When we pose before the heathen as a highly
moral guide.
For here in old New England are some capers
that would—hush!—
This is strictly on the quiet—put a savage to
the blush.
You know that when a savage leaves his rela-
tives bereft,
There isn’t any scrapping over what the heathen
left.
They bury all his queer stone tools, his arrows
and his bow,
They stuff his pack with grub for snack; put
in his wampum “dough;”
They kill his horse and slay his dog and then
they sing a song,
And kill off all his weeping wives and send
them right along.
There’s no annoying probate court, no long,
litigious fuss,
No lawyer’s fees, no family row, no will-de-
stroying cuss.
The estate is executed in a brisk and thorough
style
And though some certain features suit all right
a heathen isle,
Some squeamish person might arise and prop-
erly complain
There’s too much execution for adoption here
in Maine.
So I’ll not commend the custom, yet I firmly
will abide
In the notion that we have no right to pose as
moral guide
To the heathen; for it’s evident, untutored
though they are,
The heirs at least show manners in Borrioboola
Gha.