I was called upon to visit a poor couple who lived in a rear tenement.  They were of the unattached; had no ecclesiastical connections whatever.  I saw that the old man, who lay on a couch, was dying.  He was scarcely able to speak, but managed to express a desire that I sing to him; so, as there was no one present but his wife and myself to hear it, I sang.  This inspired the old man to sing himself.  He coughed violently, tried to clear his throat, pulled himself together, and sang after me a line of “Jesus, Lover of my Soul.”  This was very touching, but the solemnity was severely jarred by following that line by the first line of:  “Little Brown Jug, don’t I love you!” So between the Little Brown Jug and the sacred poetry of the church he wound up, dying with his head on my knee.

There was an insurance of thirty dollars on his life.  I informed the undertaker, and did what I could to comfort the old woman who was now entirely alone in the world.  One of the missionaries of the church came next day and helped to make arrangements for the funeral which was to take place in the afternoon.  They had not been long in that alley and knew nobody in it, and when I arrived to conduct the funeral service at three o’clock in the afternoon, there was a little crowd of people around the door, and from the inside came agonized yells from the old woman.

I opened the door and marched in.  I found the undertaker in the act of taking the body out of the casket and laying it on the lounge in the corner.  The old woman was on her knees, wringing her hands and begging him in the name of God not to do it.  I asked for an explanation and, rather reluctantly, the undertaker told me, proceeding with his programme as he explained that there was a “kink” in the insurance.

“Well,” I said, “we can fix that up all right.”

“Yes,” he said, “you can fix it up with cash; but we are not in the undertaking business for our health, you know.”

“Well, stop for a moment,” I pleaded, “and let us talk it over!”

“Have you got the dough?” he asked.

“Not here,” I replied, “but I am the pastor of that church up there on the corner, and surely we are good enough for the small expense of this funeral.”

By this time he had the lid on the casket and was proceeding to carry it out.  The old woman was now on her feet and almost in hysterics.  I was mightily moved by the situation, and asked the man to wait; but he jabbed the end of the casket under my arm—­perhaps accidentally—­pushing me to one side on his way to the door.  I was there ahead of him however; locked the door and put the key in my pocket.

“Now, will you wait for one moment till we talk it over?”

His answer was a volley of oaths.  I waited until he subsided, and then I said: 

“I will be responsible for this financially.  You are wringing the heart’s blood out of this poor old woman, and I don’t propose to stand by and allow it.”  I raised my voice and continued—­“I will give you two minutes to put that corpse back in the casket and arrange it for burial, and if you don’t do it, there may be two to bury instead of one.”