To drop in with a poor little moral at the fag-end of such a gorgeous massacre was like following the expiring sun with a candle and hope to attract the world's attention to it.
The idea that anybody could ever take my massacre for a genuine occurrence never once suggested itself to me, hedged about as it was by all those telltale absurdities and impossibilities concerning the "great pine forest," the "dressed-stone mansion," etc.

But I found out then, and never have forgotten since, that we never read the dull explanatory surroundings of marvelously exciting things when we have no occasion to suppose that some irresponsible scribbler is trying to defraud us; we skip all that, and hasten to revel in the blood-curdling particulars and be happy.
THE UNDERTAKER'S CHAT "Now that corpse," said the undertaker, patting the folded hands of deceased approvingly, "was a brick--every way you took him he was a brick.
He was so real accommodating, and so modest-like and simple in his last moments.

Friends wanted metallic burial-case--nothing else would do.
I couldn't get it.

There warn't going to be time--anybody could see that.
"Corpse said never mind, shake him up some kind of a box he could stretch out in comfortable, he warn't particular 'bout the general style of it.
Said he went more on room than style, anyway in a last final container.
"Friends wanted a silver door-plate on the coffin, signifying who he was and wher' he was from.

Now you know a fellow couldn't roust out such a gaily thing as that in a little country-town like this.