This whole matter interested me deeply, and likewise compelled my sympathy for these homeless ones.  And it all seeming real, and I not knowing it was a dream, I mentioned to one shrouded wanderer an idea that had entered my head to publish an account of this curious and very sorrowful exodus, but said also that I could not describe it truthfully, and just as it occurred, without seeming to trifle with a grave subject and exhibit an irreverence for the dead that would shock and distress their surviving friends.  But this bland and stately remnant of a former citizen leaned him far over my gate and whispered in my ear, and said: 

“Do not let that disturb you.  The community that can stand such graveyards as those we are emigrating from can stand anything a body can say about the neglected and forsaken dead that lie in them.”

At that very moment a cock crowed, and the weird procession vanished and left not a shred or a bone behind.  I awoke, and found myself lying with my head out of the bed and “sagging” downward considerably—­a position favorable to dreaming dreams with morals in them, maybe, but not poetry.

Note.—­The reader is assured that if the cemeteries in his town are kept in good order, this Dream is not leveled at his town at all, but is leveled particularly and venomously at the next town.

A TRUE STORY

Repeated word for word as I heard it—­[Written about 1876]

It was summer-time, and twilight.  We were sitting on the porch of the farmhouse, on the summit of the hill, and “Aunt Rachel” was sitting respectfully below our level, on the steps-for she was our Servant, and colored.  She was of mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated.  She was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing.  She was under fire now, as usual when the day was done.  That is to say, she was being chaffed without mercy, and was enjoying it.  She would let off peal after of laughter, and then sit with her face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she could no longer get breath enough to express.  It such a moment as this a thought occurred to me, and I said: 

“Aunt Rachel, how is it that you’ve lived sixty years and never had any trouble?”

She stopped quaking.  She paused, and there was moment of silence.  She turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile her voice: 

“Misto C-----, is you in ’arnest?”

It surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my speech, too.  I said: 

“Why, I thought—­that is, I meant—­why, you can’t have had any trouble.  I’ve never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there wasn’t a laugh in it.”

She faced fairly around now, and was full earnestness.