Full text: The little review (8 (1922), 2)

fearlessness, even his good temper, seem disquieting to others, 
irritating, a bore, something to escape. 
During that year he remained in the city by the flood preach 
ing and working at hard manual labour. 
But the next winter, well along toward the end, there was an 
epidemic of pneumonia and my little apostle was stricken 
suddenly and removed to a cheerless public hospital. There, 
gasping and choking so horribly that it was almost impossible 
to watch him, he died the night of his arrival. Nothing but 
a rickety screen of wood and cloth separated him from a score 
of other sick men when he died. Next night, washed and 
dressed in its usual neat clothes, with white linen and a gay 
coloured cravat, the beautiful plump little figure lay in a 
hideous black coffin with cheap white lining in the lonely 
gloomy little mission house that he had found somewhere off 
on the northern edge of the town. Two or three people watched 
perfunctorily by the body; but though it was almost spring 
and the day had been wet, the place grew cold as the night 
waned, and became almost intolerably dismal and horrible. 
The next day, when he was buried, was just such another 
old winter day, really a wet spring day. The low dirty white 
sky was heavy with the breath of the lakes; tne air was thick 
with rain; and the filthy snow melted in corners and mingled 
its muddy dirty water with that which dripped in showers from 
the soaked and swollen black roofs. The motor vehicles, tram- 
cars, and the thousands of feet splashed the water onto the 
morose people, the buildings, and the shop windows. The 
Negro’s wife, not much affected, arrived from Nashville in 
time to attend the service at the mission house and to go in the 
cortege to the cemetery. 
I left the service early, and riding on various trams and 
walking part of the time, crossed the low flat scattered city to 
the great out-of-the-way cemetery off on the western edge where 
he was to be buried. This tract lies beyond a vast expanse of 
the dirty little wooden houses of the city, which stand wall to 
wall along endless monotonous streets; but it lies on the bank 
of a little winding stream that is tributary to the great one by 
which the city stands. High stone supports and black iron 
palings fence the great cemetery, which stretches away out of

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