“I bought the willow for him at ‘The Forestry,’” said Mr. Wasson, stopping beside a small square yard enclosed by a picket fence. And he pointed to a mound within, on which was marked in cobble-stones the name Mèdor. A board served as headstone, and on this in black letters was painted:—
“MÈDOR, OUR DOG,
Died April 20th, 1896,
Aged 12 Years.”
“If ever a dog deserved an epitaph that dog did,” said Mr. Wasson seriously. “Mother wanted me to get one up myself; but, land! I couldn’t. I can manage bees better than I can manage poetry.”
The boys retired early that night in the tent that they shared with Captain Bradstreet. A little later, as Molly and Pauline were undressing in the end of the parlor tent shut off by the Indian blankets, Molly suddenly exclaimed,—
“O Polly, I’ve thought of something! Let’s write an epitaph for Mèdor. Don’t you believe it would please the Wassons?”
“Of course it would, Molly. It would tickle them to death.”
“Comfort them, you should say, Polly. Epitaphs don’t tickle.”
“That depends upon the epitaph, doesn’t it?” asked Pauline, yawning. “How wide open your eyes are, Molly Rowe! I’m going to tuck you into bed this minute.”
Long after Pauline had floated into dream-land, Molly lay awake beside her little sister, listening to the voices of the night in the leafy canyon. She recognized the hooting of an owl; but what was that other sound, something like a laugh and a cough and a cry all in one? It made her flesh creep. She was thankful when Mrs. Davidson appeared with a lighted candle.
“O Mrs. Davidson! what is that dreadful noise?” she whispered.