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Speaker 1: John Mortensen's funeral by Ambrose Bierce. The body rested in

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a fine mahogany coffin fitted with a plate of glass.

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All arrangements for the funeral had been so well attended

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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

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disagreeable to look upon. It bore a faint smile, and

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as the death had been painless, had not been distorted

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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

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their last tribute of respect to one who had no

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further need of friends and respect. The surviving members of

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the family came severally each few minutes to the casket

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and wept upon the placid features beneath the glass. This

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did them no good. It did no good to John

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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

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began to arrive, and, after offering such condolences to the

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strickened relatives as the proprieties of the occasion required, solemnly

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seated themselves about the room with an augmented consciousness of

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

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and in that overshadowing presence, the lesser lights went into eclipse.

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His entrance was followed by that of the widow, whose

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lamentations filled the room. She approached the casket, and, after

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leaning her face against the cold glass for a moment,

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was gently led to the seat near her daughter. Mournfully

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and lo, the Man of God began his eulogy of

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the dead, and his doleful voice, mingled with the sobbing

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which it was its purpose to stimulate and sustain, rose

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and fell, seemed to come and go like the sound

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of a sullen sea. The gloomy day grew darker as

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he spoke. A curtain of cloud underspread the sky, and

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a few drops of rain fell audibly. It seemed as

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if all nature were weeping for John Mortensen. When the

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Minister had finished his eulogy with a prayer, a hymn

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was sung, and the pallbearers took their places beside the bier.

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As the last notes of the hymn died away, the

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widow ran to the coffin, cast herself upon it, and

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sobbed hysterically. Gradually, however, she yielded to dissuasion, becoming more composed,

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and as the minister was in the act of leading

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her away, her eyes sought the face of the dead

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beneath the glass, threw up her arms, and with a shriek,

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

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and friends followed, And as the clock on the mantle

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solemnly struck three, all were staring down upon the face

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of John Mortensen deceased. They turned away, sick and faint.

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One man, trying in his terror to escape the awful sight,

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stumbled against the coffin so heavily as to knock away

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

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the glass was shattered to bits by the concussion. From

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the opening. Crawled John Mortensen's cat, which lazily leaped to

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the floor, sat down tranquility, wiped its crimson muzzle with

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

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The End of John Mortenson's Funeral by Ambrose Bierce