“I KNEW an old maid,” said the Moon. “Every winter she wore a wrapper of yellow satin, and it always remained new, and was the only fashion she followed. In summer she always wore the same straw hat, and I verily believe the very same gray-blue dress.

“She never went out, except across the street to an old female friend; and in later years she did not even take this walk, for the old friend was dead. In her solitude¹ my old maid was always busy at the window, which was adorned² in summer with pretty flowers, and in winter with cress, grown upon felt. During the last months I saw her no more at the window, but she was still alive. I knew that, for I had not yet seen her begin the ‘long journey,’ of which she often spoke³ with her friend. ‘Yes, yes,’ she was in the habit of saying, ‘when I come to die I shall take a longer journey than I have made my whole life long. Our family vault⁴ is six miles from here. I shall be carried there, and shall sleep there among my family and relatives.’ Last night a van stopped at the house. A coffin⁵ was carried out, and then I knew that she was dead. They placed straw round the coffin, and the van drove away. There slept the quiet old lady, who had not gone out of her house once for the last year. The van rolled out through the town-gate as briskly as if it were going for a pleasant excursion. On the high-road the pace was quicker yet. The coachman looked nervously⁶ round every now and then—I fancy he half expected to see her sitting on the coffin, in her yellow satin wrapper. And because he was startled, he foolishly lashed⁷ his horses, while he held the reins⁸ so tightly that the poor beasts were in a foam⁹: they were young and fiery¹⁰. A hare jumped across the road and startled them, and they fairly ran away. The old sober maiden¹¹, who had for years and years moved quietly round and round in a dull circle, was now, in death, rattled¹² over stock and stone on the public highway. The coffin in its covering of straw tumbled out of the van, and was left on the high-road, while horses, coachman, and carriage flew past in wild career. The lark¹³ rose up carolling from the field, twittering her morning lay over the coffin, and presently perched upon it, picking with her beak¹⁴ at the straw covering, as though she would tear it up. The lark rose up again, singing gaily¹⁵, and I withdrew behind the red morning clouds.”