A Farmer’s Life 
“Dear me! If I told anybody he was a whited 
sepulchre, I don’t know where I should be!”’ 
There seemed no reason why this babble should 
ever end; but it did end, and my impatience to 
hear about the farmer’s toe could at last be 
gratified. It didn’t occur to Mr. Smith to offer 
excuse for the neglect that had crippled him. 
He was like any labourer in his attitude to- 
wards discomfort. It was all in the day’s work. 
Somebody had to look after the cows and the 
milk; and if his new boot galled his foot, what 
did that matter, as long as he could Stand? These 
points were taken for granted: he didn’t so much 
as mention them. But to have sent for the 
doctor? That called for explanation; and he 
explained therefore, not without a laugh at his 
own expense. 
‘“*T dunno as I should have troubled him,” he 
said; ‘‘ only a rum thing happened, the day before 
I laid up. A man come to measure me for my 
coffin.” 
‘“* How in the world did that happen?” 
‘“‘ Oh, ’twas a mistake, of course. The carter’s 
name’s same as mine, and just before Christmas 
his old father, with the same name too, come to 
live with ’n, and—’stead of livin’ with ’n, he 
died with ’n. ’Iwas his coffin they come to 
measure for. . . . Well, and then in the evenin’, 
blest if they didn’t bring the coffin here too. 
