§ 330 Practically No Reason for It
There once was a clerk of the hotel in a small Maine town who had a unique way of keeping a diary. Each evening he wrote on the bottom lines of the page of the register for the current date a brief account of the principal daily doings in the community, usually coupled with a summary of his own personal reactions to them. Sometimes his phraseology was unusual but always it was amply descriptive.
A friend of mine was stopping at the hotel, having gone up to Maine on a fishing trip. He fell into the habit of glancing through the back pages of the register, more for the enjoyment he got from the quaint language of the entries than because he was interested in bygone neighborhood history.
On succeeding pages of the book for a week of the early spring of the year previous, he found these progressive records of a local tragedy:
Tuesday: “While fishing through the ice yesterday, Henry Whippet fell in the Saco River up to his neck. He was drawed out and took home.”
Wednesday: “Henry Whippet is in bed with a powerful bad cold. His folks are thinking some about calling in a doctor.”
Thursday: “Henry Whippet is rapidly continuing to get no better. It now looks like he is fixing to break out with the pneumonia.”
Friday: “Henry Whippet is sinking rapidly.”
Saturday: “At nine o’clock this morning our esteemed fellow-citizen, Henry J. Whippet, Esq., went to his Maker entirely uncalled for.”