12 CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA.

“T am not going to do it yet,” said he. “When I do, I_
shall measure the distance so, with my eyes open; then I shall
shut my eyes tight, chop her head off quick, and throw her
away, and shall not open my eyes until she is as dead as
a stone. Now you run away, and write the epitaph,” he added,
with a grim smile.

Iran to my room. It looked out on the woodhouse, * I drew
the curtain so as not to see the awful sight. I began to think
of the epitaph.

There was a nice fat pullet that sat upon a roost;
Death came along and gave her a vost.

That did not seem quite correct.

There was a nice plump pullet that lay beneath the brier;
Death came along and caused her to expire.

This seemed to me perfectly lovely, and I felt willing that the
pullet should die, that she might be honored by such an epitaph.
Parson Pool was famous as a writer of epitaphs, and I now felt
sure I had inherited his genius.

I thought I would just open the curtain to see if the deed was
done, when a most remarkable sight met my eyes. Grand-
father Pool stood: by the block on which the pullet was laid,
measuring the: distance to strike. He then shut his eyes,
brought down the hatchet strongly, and threw the pullet away.
What was my astonishment to see the fowl jump up aad run
across the meadow into the hemlocks.

Grandfather stood like a statue, with closed eyes, waiting for
the pullet to expire. I think he stood in this position some five
minutes, when he ventured to look slowly round.

There was nothing to be seen but the chopping-block.