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CANTON

spectator remarks that he will never, never again permit the serving of roast pork at his table on Christmas day.

The male relatives of the dead merchant are next in line. They walk afoot and are followed by the female relatives in sedan chairs. The first contingent of mourners are fairly quiet, but its lack of assistance in making the welkin ring is more than made up for by the official mourners, who, although they are only interested in the funeral so far as it means the receipt of a few cents in the way of wages, are apparently overcome by grief. Next in line is an embroidered canopy, supported in the hands of ten or fifteen men, who appear to be the pallbearers. Under the canopy is the coffin, hidden from the public gaze by side curtains which drop nearly to the ground.

Behind the canopy march the official mourners, and the old fisher woman who called down the wrath of Heaven on the heads of the "foreign devils" on the steamer that morning would have bowed her head in shame had she been there to see how her ability for noise making was surpassed by the absolute talent, in that respect, of the official mourners. Neither the death chant of the American Indians nor the voodoo songs of the tribes of darkest Africa have ever reached such a pinnacle of weird melancholy as the funeral songs of Canton, and the traveler who hears the professional mourners ply their trade will have the picture indelibly