A most ghastly expression began to develop among the decayed features and shriveled integuments of my guest's face,and I was beginning to grow uneasy and distressed,when he told me he was only working up a deep,sly smile,with a wink in it,to suggest that about the time he acquired his present garment a ghost in a neighboring cemetery missed one.This reassured me,but I begged him to confine himself to speech thenceforth,because his facial expression was uncertain.Even with the most elaborate care it was liable to miss fire.Smiling should especially be avoided.What he might honestly consider a shining success was likely to strike me in a very different light.I said I liked to see a skeleton cheerful,even decorously playful,but I did not think smiling was a skeleton's best hold.
“Yes,friend,”said the poor skeleton,“the facts are just as I have given them to you.Two of these old graveyards—the one that I resided in and one further along—have been deliberately neglected by our descendants of to-day until there is no occupying them any longer.Aside from the osteological discomfort of it—and that is no light matter this rainy weather—the present state of things is ruinous to property.We have got to move or be content to see our effects wasted away and utterly destroyed.Now,you will hardly believe it,but it is true,nevertheless,that there isn't a single coffin in good repair among all my acquaintance—now that is an absolute fact.I do not refer to low people who come in a pine box mounted on an express-wagon,but I am talking about your high-toned,silver-mounted burial-case,your monumental sort,that travel under black plumes at the head of a procession and have choice of cemetery lots—I mean folks like the Jarvises,and the Bledsoes and Burlings,and such.They are all about ruined.The most substantial people in our set,they were.And now look at them—utterly used up and poverty-stricken.One of the Bledsoes actually traded his monument to a late barkeeper for some fresh shavings to put under his head.I tell you it speaks volumes,for there is nothing a corpse takes so much pride in as his monument.He loves to read the inion.He comes after a while to believe what it says himself,and then you may see him sitting on the fence night after night enjoying it.Epitaphs are cheap,and they do a poor chap a world of good after he is dead,especially if he had hard luck while he was alive.I wish they were used more.Now I don't complain,but confidentially I do think it was a little shabby in my descendants to give me nothing but this old slab of a gravestone—and all the more that there isn't a compliment on it.It used to have
‘GONE TO HIS JUST REWARD'
