danger, said William.
—What’s that?
—Well, although you feel now that this is the happiest you can be, what would happen if, in the years to come, you became happier still?
—I would simply make another gravestone! I have done it three times already.
—What did the others say?
—Oh, I can’t tell you that. I don’t want them to influence this one.
—Understood. All right, well, what sort of epitaph are you interested in? Do you want it to be a general address, a private message, a warning, what do you think?
—A warning?
—Well, some people favor something like, Watch Out. Or, Hell Rears Its Head.
The young man burst out in peals of laughter.
—Certainly nothing like that. Perhaps something about my shack. I’ve just gotten it, you know.
William took out his pencil and sharpened it. He opened his notebook. So, your name?
—Stan Milgram.
He wrote:
Stan Milgram
Dweller in shacks
—That’s not quite right, said Stan. It’s just one shack. And anyway, maybe the shack isn’t that important. I just, well, the whole thing came from Death Poems—where some people would prepare a death poem, so that they would know for sure it would turn out well. But then I want it to reflect these brilliant days I have come to now.
—What do you do?
—Fishing, and I sit around there in the shack and read.
—What if it gave a catalog of your day? Tell me about your day, what happened?
Stan told him in detail about the day’s events.
—All right, then.
William turned to a new page.
STAN MILGRAM
4 AM, rose, already dressed, and set out for the boat.
5 AM, out on the water to the shoals.
6 AM, net after net of powerfully squirming fish.
& 7, 8, the same.
9 AM, returned to the docks.
10, 11, read Moore’s Urn Burial; ate an onion, cheese, brown bread.
12, closed eyes for a moment.
4, woke and met with the epitaphorist, and set down this record.
—I would like to see a gravestone like that, said Stan proudly.
—I also, said William.
—The writing will have to be rather small.
—Not in itself a large obstacle.
—It isn’t, is it?
—Nope.
—Let’s settle it, then. Thank you. How did you come by this work, anyway?
—I was always good with puzzles, and I have memorized the complete works of five poets which I can recite on command. Four years ago, when I could no longer do the work that I did before, I saw an advertisement in the paper. It read, Position requiring: ingenuity, restraint, quiet manner, odd hours, impeccable judgment, and eloquence. Unworthy candidates unwelcome . I was the only one to apply.
—That sort of thing, said the young man. That sort of thing I understand effortlessly. It seems the way things should work.
William smiled and shook his hand, broke the pencil in half, tucked away his notebook, and set out back towards the gates.
THE STONEMASON
had a few small houses by the cemetery, with a yard around and between them. The whole thing was walled in, as you can imagine, with a high stone wall. The grass was short and yellow and patchy. The trees were old and august.
Smoke rose from the chimney of one of the houses. To that one William went.
—Mercer, he said, a good day’s work done.
—I’d expect no less.
Mercer, a man of about fifty years with a ruddy face and thick clever hands, was grinding a piece of granite. He stopped his work and went with William into the next room, where the fireplace was. They sat.
—Let’s see it.
William handed him the notebook.
He read slowly through it, nodding sometimes, sniffing, narrowing his eyes.
—I see, he said.
He set the notebook in his lap.
—Can the girl be trusted? This could be trouble, and for nothing.
—Not for nothing.
—No, not for nothing. But can she?
—I believe so.
—Good work, then. These will be attended to. And how is Molly today?
—Seemed happy.
—You know, the rhyme she made me, I say it every day. The paper she wrote it on is gone. But I remember it.
—When was
—What’s that?
—Well, although you feel now that this is the happiest you can be, what would happen if, in the years to come, you became happier still?
—I would simply make another gravestone! I have done it three times already.
—What did the others say?
—Oh, I can’t tell you that. I don’t want them to influence this one.
—Understood. All right, well, what sort of epitaph are you interested in? Do you want it to be a general address, a private message, a warning, what do you think?
—A warning?
—Well, some people favor something like, Watch Out. Or, Hell Rears Its Head.
The young man burst out in peals of laughter.
—Certainly nothing like that. Perhaps something about my shack. I’ve just gotten it, you know.
William took out his pencil and sharpened it. He opened his notebook. So, your name?
—Stan Milgram.
He wrote:
Stan Milgram
Dweller in shacks
—That’s not quite right, said Stan. It’s just one shack. And anyway, maybe the shack isn’t that important. I just, well, the whole thing came from Death Poems—where some people would prepare a death poem, so that they would know for sure it would turn out well. But then I want it to reflect these brilliant days I have come to now.
—What do you do?
—Fishing, and I sit around there in the shack and read.
—What if it gave a catalog of your day? Tell me about your day, what happened?
Stan told him in detail about the day’s events.
—All right, then.
William turned to a new page.
STAN MILGRAM
4 AM, rose, already dressed, and set out for the boat.
5 AM, out on the water to the shoals.
6 AM, net after net of powerfully squirming fish.
& 7, 8, the same.
9 AM, returned to the docks.
10, 11, read Moore’s Urn Burial; ate an onion, cheese, brown bread.
12, closed eyes for a moment.
4, woke and met with the epitaphorist, and set down this record.
—I would like to see a gravestone like that, said Stan proudly.
—I also, said William.
—The writing will have to be rather small.
—Not in itself a large obstacle.
—It isn’t, is it?
—Nope.
—Let’s settle it, then. Thank you. How did you come by this work, anyway?
—I was always good with puzzles, and I have memorized the complete works of five poets which I can recite on command. Four years ago, when I could no longer do the work that I did before, I saw an advertisement in the paper. It read, Position requiring: ingenuity, restraint, quiet manner, odd hours, impeccable judgment, and eloquence. Unworthy candidates unwelcome . I was the only one to apply.
—That sort of thing, said the young man. That sort of thing I understand effortlessly. It seems the way things should work.
William smiled and shook his hand, broke the pencil in half, tucked away his notebook, and set out back towards the gates.
THE STONEMASON
had a few small houses by the cemetery, with a yard around and between them. The whole thing was walled in, as you can imagine, with a high stone wall. The grass was short and yellow and patchy. The trees were old and august.
Smoke rose from the chimney of one of the houses. To that one William went.
—Mercer, he said, a good day’s work done.
—I’d expect no less.
Mercer, a man of about fifty years with a ruddy face and thick clever hands, was grinding a piece of granite. He stopped his work and went with William into the next room, where the fireplace was. They sat.
—Let’s see it.
William handed him the notebook.
He read slowly through it, nodding sometimes, sniffing, narrowing his eyes.
—I see, he said.
He set the notebook in his lap.
—Can the girl be trusted? This could be trouble, and for nothing.
—Not for nothing.
—No, not for nothing. But can she?
—I believe so.
—Good work, then. These will be attended to. And how is Molly today?
—Seemed happy.
—You know, the rhyme she made me, I say it every day. The paper she wrote it on is gone. But I remember it.
—When was
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