“Sit down, Dave,” said the Bishop calmly, “I've been preachin' fun'rals fur fifty years an' that is the fus' time I ever was sassed by a corpse. You know it's so an' besides I left out one thing. You're always tellin' what kinder weather it's gwinter be to-morrow an' missin' it. You burnt my socks off forty years ago on the only hoss-trade I ever had with you. You owe me five dollars you borrowed ten years ago, an' you never caught a half pound perch in yo' life that you didn't tell us the nex' day it was a fo' pound trout. So set down. Oh, I'm tellin' the truth without any filigree, Dave.”
Aunt Sally and Tilly pulled Uncle Dave down while they conversed with him earnestly. Then he arose and said:
“Hillard, I beg yo' pardon. You've spoken the truth—Sally and Tilly both say so. I tell yo', bretherin,” he said turning to the congregation—“it'd be a good thing if we c'ud all have our fun'ral sermon now and then correctly told. There would be so many points brought out as seen by our neighbors that we never saw ourselves.”
“The subject of this sermon”—went on the Bishop—“the lamented corpse-to-be, was never married but once—to his present loving widow-to-be, and he never had any love affair with any other woman—she bein' his fust an' only love—”
“Hillard,” said Uncle Dave rising, “I hate to—”
“Set down, David Dickey,” whispered Aunt Sally, hotly, as she hastily jerked him back in his seat with a snap that rattled the teeth in his head:
“If you get up at this time of life to make any post-mortem an' dyin' declaration on that subject in my presence, ye'll be takin' out a corpse sho' 'nuff!”
Uncle Dave very promptly subsided.
“An' the only child he's had is the present beautiful daughter that sits beside him.”
Tilly blushed.