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"Rich mourners have a good time of it in cities," said Mag, "they ride to the cemetery through the handsomest streets, in smart coaches, all dressed in their new crapes, and smile out of the windows as they go, as if they'd got the mourning all on their clothes on the outside."

"Why, Mag Davis!" said Roxy.

"Ain't it so, Dan?"

"Why shouldn't it be?" said he, "they're glad at heart, for they've got a new pile of money, and that pays for the outside rig, coaches and all."

"And middling sort of folks copy the example, and pay as they can," said Jims, who had hitherto said nothing, but sat a la Turk in the midst of them.

"Yes, Jims is right, by thunder!" said Tucker.

"And who pays for poor folks?"inquired Polly.

"Captain Bunce," said some.

"The town," said others.

"There are four things to settle about," said Mag. "There's, first, whether we'll go into mourning; next, who'll furnish it; and then, third, whether we shall ride to the grave; and last, if we'll have prayers at church."

Now who will say that these poor creatures, once accustomed to all these ceremonies, should not be allowed them still? Is a mourning suit, is a mourning carriage, is a church prayer for the dead merely for you and for me, who happen to stand on our feet, and are nobody's poor? They felt the loss of an old comrade, or fellow, as sincerely as any other class. Their family was invaded by death -- a very prominent member of it was stricken from the roll, and now the education of earlier life taught them to put on crape.

But when they sent to Captain Bunce to know whether he thought they should do so, and to advise about it, what answer do you think the Captain gave them?

"Go into mourning for old aunt Dorothy!" exclaimed he; "what, the town paupers go into mourning! If that ain't a joke, I'll give up. Ha! ha! ha! ha! If that isn't rich, I can't tell what is. It ought to go on the town re- cords, and into all the newspapers. The town paupers of Crampton, who arn't worth, the whole kit and boodle of them, two bright cents in the world, come to me to ask if they shan't put on a regular suit of crape! By the L -- ," said he, "I shall die of laughing. Ha! ha! ha! ha! I wonder old aunt Dorothy don't sing them a psalm tune in her coffin. And then they propose coaches -- and even prayers on the Sabbath! I vow I believe the world is coming to an end. They seem to think as much of themselves as if they were lords of the soil, with money at interest. And yet it would be fun alive to see the old crones dressed out in mourning! All Crampton would laugh for a fortnight." The Captain loved a joke. There was not an inhabitant of the town who was more fond of one. A real good laugh, moreover, always seemed to do him good, only sometimes it seemed to shake him up rather more than most persons would call comfortable. He had a way when the paroxysm lasted, or when it was at its height, of holding on to something like a door-handle, or the back of a chair, or a tree, or a post, throwing back his head, looking right up towards the sky, and thus stayed up he could give way to the enjoyment till the tears ran down his cheeks, and his cheeks grew red, and the perspiration gathered in large quantities all over him. So he took this joke. One of his laughing paroxysms, lasting ten or fifteen minutes, quite unmanned him for any earnest, soberly employment, and he vowed again and again that he hadn't been so much amused since he took the paupers -- "It was the very height of the ridiculous."

Most every body would agree with him. Why, what nonsense to think of a parcel of broken down, disfranchized, vagrant old paupers presuming to do as society in its best condition finds expensive, a terrible -- a -- a -- a -- terrible bore! Put on mourning for one that society thinks is better off by seven cents a day, at least, for dying? Are these people, the survivors, to ride in our carriages to the grave -- to borrow our hats and shawls? Ridiculous! Is our minister to preach them a funeral sermon in our church and make them a prayer? Nonsense! nonsense! nonsense! No, "let them," as Mr. Savage says, "let them slide." They are little better than dead themselves. And where's the sense in making such an ado about a half dozen paupers, when a hundred smart, rich, decent folks are burnt up or drowned in one steamboat disaster, or killed in a smash-up of the cars in little less than no time, and forgotten in seven days! I say, where's the sense in making so much ado over a small lot of paupers? Arn't they the poorest sort of humanity that's alive -- a bill of expense, a town-charge, always wanting something -- and complaining? What good do they do for the public? -- as Savage says -- "Let, them slide!"

"Seriously," said the Captain, "you'd do well, all of you, to wash yourselves up, and comb your hair, for the parson will be here soon, and the funeral will be over before you can count twelve. Come, now, stir round, be lively, and get things in order here!"