Often and over again he's had brain-fever a-raging in one place, and the rest of the pile didn't know anything about it--didn't affect it any more than an Injun Insurrection in Arizona affects the Atlantic States.
"Well, the relations they wanted a big funeral, but corpse said he was down on flummery--didn't want any procession--fill the hearse full of mourners, and get out a stern line and tow him behind.

He was the most down on style of any remains I ever struck.

A beautiful, simpleminded creature--it was what he was, you can depend on that.

He was just set on having things the way he wanted them, and he took a solid comfort in laying his little plans.

He had me measure him and take a whole raft of directions; then he had the minister stand up behind a long box with a table--cloth over it, to represent the coffin, and read his funeral sermon, saying 'Angcore, angcore!' at the good places, and making him scratch out every bit of brag about him, and all the hifalutin; and then he made them trot out the choir, so's he could help them pick out the tunes for the occasion, and he got them to sing 'Pop Goes the Weasel,' because he'd always liked that tune when he was downhearted, and solemn music made him sad; and when they sung that with tears in their eyes (because they all loved him), and his relations grieving around, he just laid there as happy as a bug, and trying to beat time and showing all over how much he enjoyed it; and presently he got worked up and excited, and tried to join in, for, mind you, he was pretty proud of his abilities in the singing line; but the first time he opened his mouth and was just going to spread himself his breath took a walk.
"I never see a man snuffed out so sudden.