Godfather Gilpin quite agreed with me, and we made a nice mound (for I had brought my spade), and put the best kind of cross, and afterwards I made a wreath of forget-me-nots to hang on it.

He was the only robin-redbreast I have found since I became a Brother of Pity, and that was how it was that it was not I who buried him after all.

Many of the walks that Nurse likes to take I do not care about, but one place she likes to go to, especially on Sunday, I like too, and that is the churchyard.

I was always fond of it.  It is so very nice to read the tombstones, and fancy what the people were like, particularly the ones who lived long ago, in 1600 and something, with beautifully-shaped sixes and capital letters on their graves.  For they must have dressed quite differently from us, and perhaps they knew Charles the First and Oliver Cromwell.

Diggory the gravedigger never talks much, but I like to watch him.  I think he is rather deaf, for when I asked him if he thought, if he went on long enough, he could dig himself through to the other side of the world, he only said “Hey?” and chucked up a great shovelful of earth.  But perhaps it was because he was so deep down that he could not hear.

Now, when he is quite out of sight, and chucks the earth up like that, it makes me think of the sexton beetles; for Godfather Gilpin says they drive their flat heads straight down, and then lift them with a sharp jerk, and throw the earth up so.

I said to Diggory one day, “Don’t you wish your head was flat, instead of being as it is, so that you could shovel with it instead of having to have a spade?”

He wasn’t so deep down that time, and he heard me, and put his head up out of the grave and rested on his spade.  But he only scratched his head and stared, and said, “You be an uncommon queer young gentleman, to be sure,” and then went on digging again.  And I was afraid he was angry, so I daren’t ask him any more.

I daren’t of course ask him if he is a Brother of Pity, but I think he deserves to be, for workhouse burials at any rate; for if you have only the Porter and Silly Billy at your funeral, I don’t think you can call that having friends.

I have taken the beetles for my brothers, of course.  Godfather Gilpin says I should find far more bodies than I do if they were not burying all along.  I often wish I could understand them when they hum, and that they knew me.

I wonder if either they or Diggory know that they belong to the order of Fratelli della Misericordia, and that I belong to it too?

But of course it would not be right to ask them, even if either of them would answer me, for if we were “known, even to each other,” we should not really and truly be Brothers of Pity.

NOTE—­Burying beetles are to the full as skilful as they are described in this tale.  With a due respect for the graces of art, I have not embodied the fact that they feed on the carcases which they bury.  The last thing that the burying beetle does, after tidying the grave, is to make a small hole and go down himself, having previously buried his partner with their prey.  Here the eggs are laid, and the larvae hatched and fed.

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