When we got through the services after every one of the six hundred had, in the language of the local undertaker, “viewed the remains,” we went to the cemetery.  I rode behind a horse which was thirty-eight years old.  I do not know what his original colour had been but at present he was white and hoary with age.

“I always use him for funerals,” said the undertaker, “because he naturally sets the proper pace for a funeral procession.”

“Mercy,” said I, “I hope he won’t die on the road.”

“Well, if he does,” continued the undertaker, “your services will come in handy.  We can bury him proper.  I am awful fond of that horse.  I shouldn’t wonder if he hadn’t been at as many as a thousand funerals in his life.”

I thought that he had all the gravity of his grewsome experiences, especially in his gait.  The Christmas dinners were all late on account of the funeral but they were bountiful and good nevertheless and I much enjoyed mine.

Another Christmas I was snow-bound on one of the obscure branches of a Western railroad.  If the train had been on time I would have made a connection and have reached home by Christmas Eve, but it was very evident, as the day wore on, that it was not going to be on time.  Indeed it was problematical whether it would get anywhere at all.  It was snowing hard outside.  Our progress had become slower and slower.  Finally in a deep cut we stopped.  There were four men, one woman, and two little children in the car—­no other passengers in the train.  The train was of that variety known out West as a “plug” consisting of a combination baggage and smoker and one coach.

One of the trainmen started on a lonely and somewhat dangerous tramp of several miles up the road to the next station to call for the snow-plough, and the rest of us settled down to spend the night.  Certainly we could not hope to be extricated before the next evening, especially as the storm then gave no signs of abating.  We all went up to the front of the car and sat around the stove in which we kept up a bright fire,—­fortunately we had plenty of fuel—­and in such circumstances we speedily got acquainted with each other.  One of the men was a “drummer,” a travelling man for a notion house; another was a cow-boy; the third was a big cattle-man; and I was the last.  We soon found that the woman was a widow who had maintained herself and the children precariously since the death of her husband by sewing and other feminine odd jobs but had at last given up the unequal struggle and was going back to live with her mother, also a widow who had some little property.

The poor little threadbare children had cherished anticipations of a joyous Christmas with their grandmother.  From their talk we could hear that a Christmas tree had been promised them and all sorts of things.  They were intensely disappointed at the blockade.  They cried and sobbed and would not be comforted.  Fortunately the woman had a great basket filled with substantial provisions which, by the way, she generously shared with the rest of us, so we were none of us hungry.  As the night fell, we tipped up two of the seats, placed the bottoms sideways, and with our overcoats made two good beds for the little folks.  Just before they went to sleep the drummer said to me: