floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at a funeral than they do at other places except church. When the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and making no more sound than a cat.  He never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands.  Then he took his place over against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man I ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham. They had borrowed a melodeum--a sick one; and when everything was ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the only one that had a good thing, according to my notion.  Then the Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and wait--you couldn't hear yourself think.  It was right down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to know what to do.  But pretty soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to say, “Don't you worry--just depend on me.”  Then he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people's heads.  So he glided along, and the powwow and racket getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around two sides of the room, he disappears down cellar.  Then in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk where he left off.  In a minute or two here comes