me that's th' bes' way t' do with dead folks—have your own cem'terry right in your house where it's handy. It's 'specially nice when one moves 'round a good deal like I've done. I never c'uld a-forded t' gone visitin' here an' there t' that many graves scattered 'bout in dif'rent states. Besides, it saves tumstones an' th' 'spense o' takin' care o' the lots."
Gradually, I grasped the woman's meaning as she continued to rock back and forth and utter her placid Mrs. Jarley explanation. The men who had been so unfeelingly abrupt as to "up an' leave" this poor creature had evidently, each in his turn, been cremated, and now their ashes, side by side, served to adorn the mantel and comfort the heart of the faithful widow. "Imperial Caesar, dead and turned to clay. . . ." I gazed at the row of assorted receptacles with awe and back at the woman with feelings still more curious.
"Some folks thinks them's odd kin' o' coffins," she continued, "but I d'know what c'uld be more 'propriate. Yuh see, I've tried t' have each one sort o' repasent either th' man hisself or his trade. Now, for instance, this here one," she explained, rising and placing her hand on a small stone jar at the left end of the line—there were five of these unique memorials altogether—"this was my fust husban', John Marmyduke. Th' label on th' crock, yuh'll notice, is 'Marmylade', an' that's purt' near his name, an' then it almose d'scribes his dispazishun, too. Th' grocer tol' me that marmylade was a kin' o' English jam, an' John was sort o' sweet-tempered, fer a man, so I thought one o' them stun things 'ud do fine to keep him in.
"This is William Thompson here," she continued, tapping a small tea caddy with her thimble. "He was a teacher, an' I always called 'im Mr. T. so w'en he departed I thinks to myself, thinks I, 'One o' them little chests that Chinymens packs tea in is jes' th' ticket fer yuh'—tea standin' for both his name an' his callin', do you see?"
I expressed my admiration for this delightful idea, and she proceeded with her cataloguing:
"This third cuhlection, in th' fruit jar, is Mason. That was his name an' his trade, an' he belonged to that lodge an' that's the make o' th' jar, so, considerin' all them facks, I d'know what c'uld be a fitter tum fer 'im. Mason fell off a roof one day an' broke his back, an' though he lived six months, somehow, he was never much 'count arter that. He was a big man—weighed 225 afore breakfus—an' he made such a pile o' ashes, spite o' their keepin' him in the oven double time, that it took a gallon jar to hol' his leavin's. I had some quart jars on hand already an' 'spected to put 'im in one of 'em, but I never begrudged buyin' a bigger one fer he was always, or purt near always gen'rous with me, an' then I knew I was savin' an undertaker's bill, anyhow.
"Now, I wa'n't altogether sattyfied with th' coffin I fin-ly chose fer Cook," she said, looking at me doubtfully, as she motioned toward the small japanned tin bread-box that was the next mortuary souvenir on the shelf. "I worried over th' matter th' hull time he was sick, but I never got a mite o' help from 'im. Ev'ry time I tried to git that man to suggest what he thought he'd rest cumft-ble in he'd go on frightful. Doctor said his temper prob'bly shortened his life.
"Well, at last I dee-cided on the bread box as comin' as near to repasentin' him as anything I c'uld think on—his name bein' an' him havin' occupated as a baker as long's he was 'live. What’s your 'pinion 'bout it, Mister?"
I declared that if Mr. Cook did not now rest in peace and content he was certainly a hard man to please.
