“This third cuhlection, in th’ fruit jar, is Mason. That was his name an’ his trade, an’ he belonged to that lodge an’ that’s the make o’ th’ jar, so, considerin’ all them facks, I d’know what c’uld be a fitter tum fer ’im. Mason fell off a roof one day an’ broke his back, an’ though he lived six months, somehow, he was never much ’count arter that. He was a big man—weighed 225 afore breakfus—an’ he made such a pile o’ ashes, spite o’ their keepin’ him in the oven double time, that it took a gallon jar to hol’ his leavin’s. I had some quart jars on hand already an’ ’spected to put ’im in one of ’em, but I never begrudged buyin’ a bigger one fer he was always, or purt near always gen’rous with me, an’ then I knew I was savin’ an undertaker’s bill, anyhow.
“Now, I wa’n’t altogether sattyfied with th’ coffin I fin-ly chose fer Cook,” she said, looking at me doubtfully, as she motioned toward the small japanned tin bread-box that was the next mortuary souvenir on the shelf. “I worried over th’ matter th’ hull time he was sick, but I never got a mite o’ help from ’im. Ev’ry time I tried to git that man to suggest what he thought he’d rest cumft-ble in he’d go on frightful. Doctor said his temper prob’bly shortened his life.
“Well, at last I dee-cided on the bread box as comin’ as near to repasentin’ him as anything I c’uld think on—his name bein’ Cook an’ him havin’ occupated as a baker as long’s he was ’live. What’s your ’pinion ’bout it, Mister?”
I declared that if Mr. Cook did not now rest in peace and content he was certainly a hard man to please.
“Th’ las’ one there, as I tole yuh,” she went on, with something like animation, “is Mr. Hay, an’ I do feel consid’able proud over his casket—it sure was a happy thought o’ mine. See?” She took down the object and held it in the sunlight where I could get a plainer view. “He died jes’ las’ year.”
Mr. Hay’s ashes reposed in one of the large square glass perfume bottles such as most druggists carry, and the ornate label thereon had become the painfully true epitaph, “New Mown Hay”!
When I could trust my voice, I inquired, “was he ill long?”
“No; he wa’n’t ill a-tall. He left me kinda on’spectedly. However, he always was a great man fer doin’ things on th’ impulse o’ th’ moment. We was livin’ out on a farm then, an’ one day Mr. Hay was cutting grass in th’ orchard an’ I ’spose he must ’a’ struck a nest o’ bees. Anyhow, somethin’ started th’ team an’ they run ’way an’ throwed him off in front o’ th’ knives, an’ th’ horses stepped on him a few times an’ th’ machine finished it up. He cert’inly was most completely dead when we reached him. Hired man tole me he had to gether him up with a rake an’ wheelbarrer. Only forty-six years ol’, too, he was—mowed down in his prime!