The men stayed to dinner, and I said to Cephas out to one side—
“Cephas, that monument is a-goin' to cost a sight.”
“Wall,” sez he, “we can't raise too high a one. Wellington deserved it all.”
Sez I, “Won't that and all these funeral expenses take about all the money he left?”
“Oh, no!” sez he. “He had insured his life for a large amount, and it all goes to his wife and children. He deserves a monument if a man ever did.”
“But,” sez I, “don't you believe that Wellington would ruther have S. Annie and the children settled down in a good little home with sumthin' left to take care of 'em, than to have all this money spent in perfectly useless things?”
“Useless!” sez Cephas, turnin' red. “Why,” sez he, “if you wuzn't a near relation I should resent that speech bitterly.”
“Wall,” sez I, “what do all these flowers, and empty carriages, and silver-plated nails, and crape, and so forth—what does it all amount to?”
“Respect and honor to his memory,” sez Cephas, proudly.
Sez I, “Such a life as Wellington's had them; no body could take 'em away nor deminish 'em. Such a brave, honest life is crowned with honor and respect any way. It don't need no crape, nor flowers, nor monuments to win 'em. And, at the same time,” sez I dreamily, “if a man is mean, no amount of crape, or flower-pieces, or flowery sermons, or obituries, is a-goin' to cover up that meanness. A life has to be lived out-doors as it were; it can't be hid. A string of mournin' carriages, no matter how long, hain't a-goin' to carry a dishonorable life into honor, and no grave, no matter how low and humble it is, is a-goin' to cover up a honorable life.