Tumble Inn

I must tell this very gently, and with somewhat of bated breath. We went to O. Henry’s funeral, my mother and I. We had read in the papers of his passing, and had noted the hour and the place; a fitting place it was — the Little Church Around the Corner — the Church of the Strangers, as it sometimes is called. We supposed there would be a large crowd; probably cards of admission would be required. We had none, but we went intending to stand on the curb, if need be, to pay our last deference to one of America’s Immortals. But no crowd edged the curb; we saw a few carriages and a small group at the door that somehow was far from funereal in appearance. On entering the vestibule we were accosted with a question. So certain were we it must be a request for a card that for a moment we were uncomprehending — and good reason there was for our dismay. We had heard the strangest question ever worded, I believe, at chancel door since the cross of Christ stood over it:

“Have you come for the wedding or the funeral?”

Somehow it was a phrase that stabbed to the heart, though we soon understood, of course, that a mistake had been made in the time set for the two ceremonies. The wedding party was already there but it was decided to hold the funeral first. So a few of us — astonishingly few, unbelievably few — sat forward in the dim nave while a brief — a very brief — little service was read over the still form of one whose tireless hand had penned pages of truth, humour, and philosophy that will live as long as the foundation stones of our Hall of Fame endure.

One felt a hurried pulse through all the service, and as the cortege passed out a flower or two fell from the casket and we knew that soon the bridal train would be brushing them aside. Out of place, it would seem, to the last, was O. Henry; with hardly time in the church to bury him.