“A Christian wife and offspring seven
     Mourn for John Peters who has gone to heaven. 
     But as for him we are sure he can weep no more,
     He is happy with the lovely angels on that bright shore."{~DAGGER~}

{~DAGGER~} Heaven.

My mother was horrified.  She said, severely, that she couldn’t to save her life see why any mortal man should snigger because a Christian wife and children seven mourned for John Peters who had gone to heaven.  The Butterfly Man looked up, meekly.  And of a sudden my mother stopped short, regarded him with open mouth and eyes, and retired hastily.  He resumed his pasting.

“I’ve got a hankering for what you might call grave poetry,” said he, pensively.  “Yes, sir; an obituary like that is like an all-day sucker to me.  Say, don’t you reckon they make the people they’re written about feel glad they’re dead and done for good with folks that could spring something like that on a poor stiff?  Wait a minute, parson—­you can’t afford to miss Broken-hearted Admirer: 

    “Miss Matty, I watched thee laid in the gloomy grave’s embrace,
    Where nobody can evermore press your hand or your sweet face. 
    When you were alive I often thought of thee with fond pride,
    And meant to call around some night & ask you to be my loving Bride. 
    “But alas, there is a sorrowful sadness in my bosom to-day,
    For I never did it & now can never really know what you would say.

Miss Matty, the time may come when I can remember thee as a brother,
And lay my fond true heart at the loving feet of another. 
For though just at present I can do nothing but sigh & groan,
The Holy Bible tells us it is not good for a man to dwell alone. 
But even though, alas, I’m married, my poor heart will still be true,
And oft in the lone night I will wake & weep to think she never
can be you.” 
—­“A BROKEN-HEARTED ADMIRER.”

“Ain’t that sad and sweet, though?” said the Butterfly Man admiringly.  “Don’t you hope those loving feet will be extra loving when Broken-hearted makes ’em a present of his fond heart, parson?  Wouldn’t it be something fierce if they stepped on it!  Gee, I cried in my hat when I first read that!” Now wasn’t it a curious coincidence that, even as Madame, I regarded John Flint with open mouth and eyes, and retired hastily?

For some time the Clarion had been getting worse and worse; heaven knows how it managed to appear on time, and we expected each issue to be its last.  It wasn’t news to Appleboro that it was on its last legs.  I was not particularly interested in its threatened demise, not having John Flint’s madness for its obituaries; but he watched it narrowly.

“Did you know,” he remarked to Laurence, “that the poor old Clarion is ready to bust?  It will have to write a death-notice for itself in a week or two, the editor told me this morning.”

“So?” Laurence seemed as indifferent as I.