"It says, 'Here lies Jonas Whipple, aged eighty-seven,' and it says, 'he passed to his reward April 23, 1828,' and here's his picture."
He pointed to the rounded top of the stone where was graven a circle inclosing primitive eyes, a nose, and mouth. From the bottom of the circle on either side protruded wings.
Merle drew near to scan the device. He was able to divine that the intention of the artist had not been one of portraiture.
"That ain't either his picture," he said, heatedly. "That's a cupid!"
"Ho, gee, gosh! Ain't cupids got legs? Where's its legs?"
"Then it's an angel."
"Angels are longer. I know now—it's a goop. And here's some more reading."
He ran his fingers along the worn lettering, then brought his eyes close and read—glibly in the beginning:
Behold this place as you pass by.
As you are now, so once was I.