In his shroud.
--On Sunday morning one of the
Atlanta (Ga.) editors who resides a little way out of town — the morning being very sultry — drew out of his wardrobe an old suit of pure white duck in which he arranged himself.
He mounted his horse and rede along, coming into the city to get the news, and passed by the soldiers' came, about 100 men laying around As be rede along by them one of the soldiers called out. "Come on, boys, let's attend the funeral," whereupon the whole crowd fell into line and started on with the , measured trend of the dead march after the "solitary horseman." At the further end of the column one of them haloed out, "How do you know he's dead?" "Oh, I know he is, " replied the first; "they've got him in his shroud." At this point the editor took the hist, and an application of his spurs to his horse sent him forward at a speed rather unusual in funeral processions.