When he first went into the medicine
business, he said, he was drawed to it by the diseases
and the sudden dyings-off it always kept him in
mind of. He thought they wasn't no other business
could lay over it fur that kind of comfort. But
he has found out his mistake.
"What kind of business are you going into?"
asts the doctor.
"I am going to be an undertaker," says Looey.
"My aunt says this town needs the right kind of
an undertaker bad."
Mr. Wilcox, the undertaker that town has, is
getting purty old and shaky, Looey says, and
young Mr. Wilcox, his son, is too light-minded and
goes at things too brisk and airy to give it the
right kind of a send-off. People don't want him
joking around their corpses and he is a fat young
man and can't help making puns even in the presence
of the departed. Old Mr. Wilcox's eyesight is
getting so poor he made a scandal in that town only
the week before. He was composing a departed's
face into a last smile, but he went too fur with it,
and give the departed one of them awful mean,
devilish kind of grins, like he had died with a bad
temper on. By the time the departed's fambly
had found it out, things had went too fur, and the
face had set that-a-way, so it wasn't safe to try
to change it any.
Old Mr. Wilcox had several brands of last looks.
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