In a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture.  
A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered.
 
"Well," said he, "Mag's dead."
 
"What?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread.
 
"Mag's dead," repeated the man.
 
"Deh hell she is," said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee she began to weep.
 
"I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she weared worsted boots," moaned she.
 
"Well, whata dat?" said the man.
 
"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried.
 
The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted.
 
Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms. "Ah, poor Mary," she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one.
 
"Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis," continued she. Her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. "Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs! Ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'."
 
Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe.
 
"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith," she cried, raising her streaming eyes.
 
"Ah, me poor Mary," sobbed the woman in black. With low, coddling cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms about her. The other women began to groan in different keys.
 
"Yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, Mary, an' let us hope it's fer deh bes'. Yeh'll fergive her now, ............