“Why—why—” said the minister, nervously; “I didn’t know that any one had—had died—“
“There hain’t no one died, ez I know. It’s my fun’l sermon I want.”
“But, my dear Mr. Hitt, I trust you are not—that you won’t—that—“
“Life’s a rope of sand, parson—you’d ought to know that—nor we don’t none of us know when it’s goin’ to fetch loost. I’m most ninety now, ’n’ I don’t cal’late to git no younger.”
“Well,” said Mr. Pursly, faintly smiling; “when the time does come—“
“No, sir!” interrupted Mr. Hitt, with emphasis; “when the time doos come, I won’t have no use for it. Th’ ain’t no sense in the way most folks is berrid. Whut’s th’ use of puttin’ a man into a mahog’ny coffin, with a silver plate big’s a dishpan, an’ preachin’ a fun’l sermon over him, an’ costin’ his estate good money, when he’s only a poor deef, dumb, blind fool corpse, an’ don’t get no good of it? Naow, I’ve be’n to the undertaker’s, an’ hed my coffin made under my own sooperveesion—good wood, straight grain, no knots—nuthin’ fancy, but doorable. I’ve hed my tombstun cut, an’ chose my text to put onto it—’we brung nuthin’ into the world, an’ it is certain we can take nuthin’ out’—an’ now I want my fun’l sermon, jes’ as the other folks is goin’ to hear it who don’t pay nuthin’ for it. Kin you hev it ready for me this day week?”
“I suppose so,” said Mr. Pursly, weakly.
“I’ll call fer it,” said the old man. “Heern some talk about a Perrish House, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” began Mr. Pursly, his face lighting up.
“‘Tain’t no sech a bad idee,” remarked Brother Joash. “Wal, good day.” And he walked off before the minister could say any thing more.