He looked anything but mournful, but he went on:
“I married dis ole man’s stepdaughter, an’ consequentially she died. An’ den dis ole man got a kick from a mule, an’ laid he flat on his back; den he got his head stove in with a chimbly fallin’ on it; den de airysipples sot in, an’ de rheumaticks, an’ nurality, an’ foh years desese has jes’ fed on him, an’ de ultamatim of it wuz he died. An’ I spoze I am jes’ about as much of a mourner heah as you’ll find.”
And sayin’ this, the radiant-faced mourner turned away and joined some friends.
As I turned back I met the colored preacher and his wife, who wuz evidently takin’ a short road home acrost the graveyard.
ONE OF THE MOURNERS.
She wuz a good-lookin’ mulatto woman, and I passed the time of day with her by sayin’, “How do you do?” and etc.
And bein’ one that is always on the search for information, I fell into talk with her and her husband, and likin’ their looks, I finally asked him what his name wuz.
And he said, “My name is Mary Johnson.”
Sez I, “You mean your wife’s name is Mary.”