It was understood that I could not attend the puppy's funeral in my
proper person, because I wished to be the undertaker; but the happy
thought struck me of putting my wheelbarrow alongside of the brick wall
with a note inside it to the effect that I had "sent my carriage as a
mark of respect."
In one point we could not emulate the real funeral: that was carried out
"regardless of expense." The old miser had left a long list of the names
of the people who were to be invited to it and to its attendant feast,
in which was not only my father's name, but Jem's and mine. Three yards
was the correct length of the black silk scarves which it was the custom
in the neighbourhood to send to dead people's friends; but the old
miser's funeral-scarves were a whole yard longer, and of such stiffly
ribbed silk that Mr. Soot, the mourning draper, assured my mother that
"it would stand of itself." The black gloves cost six shillings a pair,
and the sponge-cakes, which used to be sent with the gloves and scarves,
were on this occasion ornamented with weeping willows in white sugar.
Jem and I enjoyed the cake, but the pride we felt in our scarves and
gloves was simply boundless.
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