The Protective League of Adult Orphans held a meeting before I was cold, and passed the resolutions following:
Whereas, The flower that bloomed under the name of Peter Wodel Mocump has been ruthlessly cut down by the Reaper whose name is Death; and
Whereas, He was a pansy; be it, therefore,
Resolved, That in his removal this League has lost a sturdy champion of the rights of orphans; and be it further
Resolved, That a general boycott be, and hereby is, declared against all orphans outside this Protective League.
The Ancient and Honorable Order of Divorced Men eulogized me in the strongest language as one who had possessed in a high and conspicuous degree every qualification for membership in their Order. By the Murderers’ Mutual Resentment Association I was described as one whose time, talent and fortune were ever at the service of those injured in the world’s esteem by the judicial practice of alluding to the past. The League of Persons Having Moles on Their Necks said that, apart from the unusual size of my mole, I had ever shown a strong zeal for the public welfare and the advancement of civilization.
I gathered up these various evidences of worth. I got together all the obituary notices from the newspapers, which showed with a singular unanimity that I was greatly addicted to secret almsgiving (how did they know it?) and that I was without a fault of character or disposition. I copied the inscription on my headstone and the verses in the death-column of the Morning Buglehorn—some of its death editor’s happiest and most striking lines. Altogether, this literature made a pretty large volume of eulogy. I had it printed and bound (in the Other World sense) and copiously indexed. It was the best reading I ever saw.
The time arrived for me to appear at the gate of Heaven and make a personal demand for admission. I was notified of the hour when I would be heard, and was on hand. St. Peter received me with a smile and said:
“We are full of business to-day; be brief and speak to the point. What do you know of yourself that entitles you to a seat in the blest abodes?”
I smiled rather loftily but without hauteur, and silently handed him the volume, bearing in golden letters on the cover the title: “My Record.” St. Peter turned over the leaves deliberately, read a passage here and there and handed it back, saying:
“My friend, you have run into a streak of hard luck. The persons who have given you so good a character—the societies, newspapers, etc.—are unknown to me, and I don’t wish to say anything against them. But they have been backing a good many applicants lately, and I have let in a few on their judgment. Well, this very morning I got this note. I don’t mind letting you read it if you won’t say I showed it. You will see I can’t do anything for you.”
He handed me a letter with about half the envelope torn off by careless opening. It read as follows:
Dear Peter,—There has been quite a number of disturbances in here lately, and three or four cases of scandalous misconduct on the part of the saints, one of whom, in fact, eloped with an angel. Another was arrested for pocketing some of the golden pavement, and some have been trying to become famous by cutting their initials in the bark of the Tree of Life. Inquiry shows that in every instance the offender is a recent arrival, always a prominent citizen and a member of a number of “societies.” I won’t overrule your action, but really the character of this place is changing. I must ask you to stick to the old tests—a godly life and a humble acceptance of the Christian religion.