"
"It seems to me," said Peter, amid the laughter with which we
greeted the tale, "that a funny story is funnier when it is about
a minister than it is about any other man. I wonder why."
"Sometimes I don't think it is right to tell funny stories about
ministers," said Felicity. "It certainly isn't respectful."
"A good story is a good story--no matter who it's about," said the
Story Girl with ungrammatical relish.
There was as yet no one in the church when we reached it, so we
took our accustomed ramble through the graveyard surrounding it.
The Story Girl had brought flowers for her mother's grave as
usual, and while she arranged them on it the rest of us read for
the hundredth time the epitaph on Great-Grandfather King's
tombstone, which had been composed by Great-Grandmother King.
That epitaph was quite famous among the little family traditions
that entwine every household with mingled mirth and sorrow, smiles
and tears. It had a perennial fascination for us and we read it
over every Sunday. Cut deeply in the upright slab of red Island
sandstone, the epitaph ran as follows:--
SWEET DEPARTED SPIRIT
Do receive the vows a grateful widow pays,
Each future day and night shall hear her speak her Isaac's praise.
Though thy beloved form must in the grave decay
Yet from her heart thy memory no time, no change shall steal away.
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