FullReads

“Nice view you have up here.”

“Yes, I enjoy it very much. Have that stump over there. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, pretty fair, thank you. I was thinkin’ you might like to look over them papers I spoke about. I have ’em here now.” And he fished in his coat-pocket.

I turned over the one paper he extracted, which was a memorandum to the effect that Ida Widdle, née Hauchawout, sole owner of such-and-such property, desired and hereby agreed that in the event of her death and the absence of any children, her husband, Henry Widdle, was to succeed her as sole owner and administrator. And this was witnessed by Notary Driggs of Shrivertown.

“There’s no question in my mind as to the validity of that,” I solemnly assured him.”It seems to me that a lawyer could make it very difficult for any one to disturb you in your place. Still, I’m not a lawyer. Why not see one? Or ask Justice Driggs?”

“Well,” he said, turning his head slowly and as slowly taking the paper, “I don’t like to go to any lawyer unless I have to. I’m afraid of ’em. They could make a lot o’ trouble for an inexperienced feller like me. I don’t calc’late to do nothin’ unless I have to, but I thought you might know.”

I stopped my work and meditated on his fate and how well chance had dealt with him in one way and another. After a time, during which it seemed to me that he might be thinking of the misused Ida, he searched in his pockets and finally extracted another paper, which I thought might be another agreement of some kind. He held this in his hands for a minute or more, then unfolding the paper very carefully he said:

“You bein’ a writer, I thought I’d bring up a little thing I’ve fixed up here about my wife an’ ask you what you thought of it. It’s some poetry I’ve been thinkin’ I’d put in ‘The Banner’ over here to Bixley.”

I could scarcely suppress my astonishment, let alone my curiosity, as to the nature of this composition which was to be published, at his request presumably, by “The Banner.”

“How do you mean, publish?” I inquired respectfully, and holding out my hand.”Suppose you let me see it.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather read it to you. It’s in my writin’ an’ kind o’ mixed up, but I can read it to you.”

“By all means. But tell me something about it first. You say it’s a poem about your wife. Did you compose it yourself?”

“Yes, sir. Only yesterday an’ last night. Well, mebbe three days, countin’ the time I been thinkin’ on it.”

“And it’s going to be published in ‘The Banner?’ Do you submit it, or just how is that?”

“Oh, they always print death-rhymes,” he went on in his slow explanatory way.”They charge ten cents a line. Everybody does it when anybody they’re fond of dies — husband or wife, or like o’ that.”

“Oh, I see,” I hazarded, a great light dawning.”It’s a custom, and you feel in a way that you ought to do it.”

“Yes, sir, that’s it. If it don’t cost too much, I thought I’d just put this in.”

I prepared to give the matter attentive ear.

“Read it,” I said, and he smoothed out the paper, the slanting afternoon light falling over him and it, and began: