corpse say?  Corpse said, whitewash his old canoe and dob his address and general destination onto it with a blacking brush and a stencil plate, long with a verse from some likely hymn or other, and pint him for the tomb, and mark him C. O. D., and just let him skip along.  He warn’t distressed any more than you be—­on the contrary just as carm and collected as a hearse-horse; said he judged that wher’ he was going to, a body would find it considerable better to attract attention by a picturesque moral character than a natty burial case with a swell doorplate on it.  Splendid man, he was.  I’d druther do for a corpse like that ’n any I’ve tackled in seven year.  There’s some satisfaction in buryin’ a man like that.  You feel that what you’re doing is appreciated.  Lord bless you, so’s he got planted before he sp’iled, he was perfectly satisfied; said his relations meant well, perfectly well, but all them preparations was bound to delay the thing more or less, and he didn’t wish to be kept layin’ round.  You never see such a clear head as what he had—­and so carm and so cool.  Just a hunk of brains that is what he was.  Perfectly awful.  It was a ripping distance from one end of that man’s head to t’other.  Often and over again he’s had brain fever a-raging in one place, and the rest of the pile didn’t know anything about it—­didn’t affect it any more than an Injun insurrection in Arizona affects the Atlantic States.  Well, the relations they wanted a big funeral, but corpse said he was down on flummery—­didn’t want any procession—­fill the hearse full of mourners, and get out a stern line and tow him behind.  He was the most down on style of any remains I ever struck.  A beautiful, simple-minded creature—­it was what he was, you can depend on that.  He was just set on having things the way he wanted them, and he took a solid comfort in laying his little plans.  He had me measure him and take a whole raft of directions; then he had a minister stand up behind a long box with a tablecloth over it and read his funeral sermon, saying ‘Angcore, angcore!’ at the good places, and making him scratch out every bit of brag about him, and all the hifalutin; and then he made them trot out the choir so’s he could help them pick out the tunes for the occasion, and he got them to sing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel,’ because he’d always liked that tune when he was downhearted, and solemn music made him sad; and when they sung that with tears in their eyes (because they all loved him), and his relations grieving around, he just laid there as happy as a bug, and trying to beat time and showing all over how much he enjoyed it; and presently he got worked up and excited; and tried to join in, for mind you he was pretty proud of his abilities in the singing line; but the first time he opened his mouth and was just going to spread himself, his breath took a walk.  I never see a man snuffed out so sudden.  Ah, it was a great loss—­it was a powerful loss to this poor little one-horse town.  Well, well,