Daily inter mountain. [volume] (Butte, Mont.) 1881-1901, 1899-02-25
time to be carried from 1t in a similar
name
WILLIAM JAMESON REID.
THE FOREHANDED GRAVEDIGGER.

One day late in November a ommer
cial traveller from New York was Walk
ing aimlessly through the graveyard in a
little village in Connecticut. 1t was a
dreary-looking place. The few trees which
had been planted there by the friends of
those sleeping underground were bare of
leaves, and the WING made their branches
rub together with a sound which ugges
ed 1rving'S description Of the haunted
tree at Sleepy Hollow. The commercial
traveller was about to seek a more cheer
full scene for the continuation of his
stroll, when he caught sight of a man
carrying a spade coming through the lit
tie gate which was reserved for pedes-
TRANS, the other and larger entrance be-
ing used by those who rode in carriages
Or otherwise.
Business pretty brisk around here?"
asked the drummer, throwing away his
cigar, and joining the nan with the
spade.
mot very replied the man, as he
bent to measure off a parallelogram s
feet by 4. "Only two funerals since Au-
gust. and one of those was a baby's, so
1 only got half-price for diggin' the
grave"
The business of the gravedigger was
not exactly what the drummer had re-
ferred to, but he let the matter drop, and,
seating himself on a large, fiat stone in
the vicinity of the parallelogram, watched
the progress Of excavation with apparent
interest.
You haven't a very imposing array of
monuments in this cemetery he re-
marked, casting his eye over the few rows
of plain, moss-grown headstones, from
which here and there a slab of clean,
shining marble told the story of it's late
arrival.
mo, we haven't a very attractive place
here" the gravedigger reluctantly admit
ted. You see, the folks in this town are
mostly poor, and those that amt poor
are too stingy to invest in marble statu-
airy for their monuments. Only about
one family in ten thinks of giving me
even a drink of cider for fixing up their
graves and lining 'em with leaves so as
to kinder soften the sound of the box as
it goes down."
pocket and handed it to the man with
the spade.
"'That's rather cold work you're doing
| he said. Better have a drink
'"Thank We, SIR said the gravedigger,
| handing back the bottle.
by the way said the drummer las
he restored it to his pocket, whose grave
is that you're digging
"Old ST Johnson's."
Isl Johnson repeated the drummer.
! Isl Johnson! It seems to me | have heard
| the name before. Isn't he father of the
| man who keeps the store up at the Cor
ners?'
Yes, that's ST. answered the grave
digger, throwing up a very large shovel
full of dirt. which came near landing on
the patent leather shoes of his queStloTer.
But | didn't know he was dead said
the drummer Il was in his sons place
this morning.
ooh. he amt dead yet" interrupted the
gr~avedigger, resting for a moment on his
spade and contemplating the progress he
had made. He amt dead yet, but the
doctor says he can't live till New Years,
so | thought I'd better get his graVeready
before the ground freezes up too hard.
Dreadful cold winters we nave down here
in Connecticut"
Have another drink said the drum
mer, ~gravely, handing over the bottle.