§ 350 Where They Take Things as They Come
Down in the old malarial belt below Mason and Dixon’s Line, the indolence of the dwellers in the Low Grounds is proverbial. In illustration of this attribute a story used to be told by the late Polk Miller, of Virginia.
Miller said that in a remote district a prominent resident was being buried. The funeral procession, on its way from the church to the graveyard passed a cabin where an ancient couple resided.
The pair in question were engaged that afternoon in the pursuit of their favorite occupation of doing nothing whatsoever. The old man was stretched on the earth with his back against the wall of the house, and facing the road. His wife, in a rickety arm-chair, was facing in the other direction, massaging her front teeth with a snuff stick. Presently she spoke:
“Whut’s that I hear passin’?”
“It’s Jim Coombs’ fune’l jest goin’ by.”
“Much of a turn-out?”
“Biggest I ever seen in these parts,” he answered. “More’n twenty hacks and waggins, looks like, and a whole passel of mo’ners on foot.”
The old woman fetched a little resigned sigh:
“Well,” she said, “I certainly do wish I was settin’ turned ’round the other way—I’d like mightily to see that there fune’l.”