'sacred to the memory of So-and-So, RELICT of the
late So-and-So.' It always made me think of something worn out and
moth eaten. Why is it that so many of the words connected with death
are so disagreeable? I do wish that the custom of calling a dead body
'the remains' could be abolished. I positively shiver when I hear the
undertaker say at a funeral, 'All who wish to see the remains please
step this way.' It always gives me the horrible impression that I am
about to view the scene of a cannibal feast."

"Well, all I hope," said Miss Cornelia calmly, "is that when I'm dead
nobody will call me 'our departed sister.' I took a scunner at this
sister-and-brothering business five years ago when there was a
travelling evangelist holding meetings at the Glen. I hadn't any use
for him from the start. I felt in my bones that there was something
wrong with him. And there was. Mind you, he was pretending to be a
Presbyterian--PresbyTARian, HE called it--and all the time he was a
Methodist. He brothered and sistered everybody. He had a large circle
of relations, that man had. He clutched my hand fervently one night,
and said imploringly, 'My DEAR sister Bryant, are you a Christian?' I
just looked him over a bit, and then I said calmly, 'The only brother I
ever had, MR. Fiske, was buried fifteen years ago, and I haven't
adopted any since. As for being a Christian, I was that, I hope and
believe, when you were crawling about the floor in petticoats.' THAT
squelched him, believe ME. Mind you, Anne dearie, I'm not down on all
evangelists. We've had some real fine, earnest men, who did a lot of
good and made the old sinners squirm. But this Fiske-man wasn't one of
them. I had a good laugh all to myself one evening. Fiske had asked
all who were Christians to stand up. _I_ didn't, believe me! I never
had any use for that sort of thing. But most of them did, and then he
asked all who wanted to be Christians to stand up. Nobody stirred for
a spell, so Fiske started up a hymn at the top of his voice. Just in
front of me poor little Ikey Baker was sitting in the Millison pew. He
was a home boy, ten years old, and Millison just about worked him to
death. The poor little creature was always so tired he fell asleep
right off whenever he went to church or anywhere he could sit still for
a few minutes. He'd been sleeping all through the meeting, and I was
thankful to see the poor child getting a rest, believe ME. Well