THE CROWING OF THE NOBLE COCK BENEVENTANO

seemed bent upon rejoining instanter this whole family in the upper
air. The children seemed to second his endeavors. Far, deep, intense
longings for release transfigured them into spirits before my eyes. I
saw angels where they lay.
They were dead.
The cock shook his plumage over them. The cock crew. It was now like a
Bravo! like a Hurrah! like a Three-times-three! hip! hip! He strode
out of the shanty. I followed. He flew upon the apex of the dwelling,
spread wide his wings, sounded one supernatural note, and dropped at my
feet.
The cock was dead.
If now you visit that hilly region, you will see, nigh the railroad
track, just beneath October Mountain, on the other side of the
swamp–there you will see a gravestone, not with skull and cross-bones,
but with a lusty cock in act of crowing, chiseled on it, with the words
beneath:
“_O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?_”
The wood-sawyer and his family, with the Signor Beneventano, lie in
that spot; and I buried them, and planted the stone, which was a stone
made to order; and never since then have I felt the doleful dumps, but
under all circumstances crow late and early with a continual crow.