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John Mortenson's funeral by Ambrose Beers.
The body rested in a fine mahogany coffin

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fitted with a plate of glass.
All arrangements for the funeral had been so

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well attended to that had the deceased
known, he would doubtless have approved.

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The face as it showed under the
glass, was not disagreeable to look upon.

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It bore a faint smile, and
as the death had been painless,

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had not been distorted beyond the repairing
power of the undertaker. At two o'clock

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in the afternoon, the friends were
to assemble to pay their last tribute of

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respect to one who had no further
need of friends and respect. The surviving

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members of the family came severally each
few minutes to the casket and wept upon

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the placid features beneath the glass.
This did them no good. It did

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no good to John Morton's but in
the presence of death, reason and philosophy

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are silent. As the hour of
two approached, the friends began to arrive,

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and, after offering such condolences to
the stricken relatives as the proprieties of

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the occasion required, solemnly seated themselves
about the room with an augmented consciousness of

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their importance in the scheme funereal.
Then the Minister came, and in that

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overshadowing presence, the lesser lights went
into eclipse. His entrance was followed by

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that of the widow, whose lamentations
filled the room. She approached the casket,

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and, after leaning her face against
the cold glass for a moment,

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was gently led to the seat near
her daughter. Mournfully and lo, the

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Man of God began his eulogy of
the dead, and his doleful voice,

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mingled with the sobbing which it was
its purpose to stimulate and sustain, rose

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and fell, seemed to come and
go like the sound of a sullen sea.

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The gloomy day grew darker as he
spoke. A curtain of cloud underspread

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the sky, and a few drops
of rain fell audibly. It seemed as

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if all nature were weeping for John
Mortenson. When the Minister had finished his

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eulogy with a prayer, hymn was
sung, and the pallbearers took their places

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beside the bier. As the last
notes of the hymn died away, the

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widow ran to the coffin, cast
herself upon it, and sobbed hysterically.

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Gradually, however, she yielded to
dissuasion, becoming more composed, and as

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the minister was in the act of
leading her away, her eyes sought the

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face of the dead beneath the glass, threw up her arms, and with

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a shriek, fell backward, insensible. The mourners sprang forward to the coffin,

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and friends followed, And as the
clock on the mantel solemnly struck three,

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all were staring down upon the face
of John Mortenson deceased. They turned

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away, sick and faint. One
man, trying in his terror to escape

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the awful sight, stumbled against the
coffin so heavily as to knock away one

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of its frail supports. The coffin
fell to the floor, the glass was

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shattered to bits by the concussion.
From the opening. Crawled John Mortenson's cat,

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which lazily leaped to the floor,
sat down, Franquilly wiped its crimson

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muzzle with a forepaw, then walked
away with dignity from the room. The

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End of John Mortenson's Funeral by Ambrose
Pearce