A VILLAGE SKETCH.
315
a few weeks ago that I heard him asked in church, and a day or two afterwards I saw the tail of the wedding procession; the little lame clerk handing the bridemaid, and a girl from the Rose, running after them with pipes, passing by our house. Nay, this very morning some one was speaking—
Dead! what dead? Jack Hatch dead? A name, a shadow, a jack-of-lantern! Can Jack Hatch die?—Hath he the property of mortality?—Can the bell toll for him? Yes; there is the coffin and the pall—all that I shall ever see of him is there. There are his comrades following in decent sorrow, and the poor pretty bride leaning on the little clerk. My search is over. Jack Hatch is dead!
