And one day, as this boy, his name was Reuben,—I forget his other name,—as Reuben was settin' under a tree, an ellum tree, cryin', he heerd a little, little bit of a voice,—not squeaky, you know, but small and thin and soft like,—and he see 't was a posy talkin'. 'T was one o' them posies they call Benjamins, with three-cornered whitey blowths with a mite o' pink on 'em, and it talked in a kind o' pinky-white voice, and it says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And he says, " 'Cause I 'm scaret o' dyin'," says he; "I 'm dreadful scaret o' dyin'." Well, what do you think? That posy jest laughed,—the most cur'us little pinky-white laugh 't was,—and it says, the Benjamin says: "Dyin'! Scaret o' dyin'? Why, I die myself every single year o' my life." "Die yourself!" says Reuben. "You 're foolin'; you 're alive this minute."  " 'Course I be," says the Benjamin; "but that 's neither here nor there,—I 've died every year sence I can remember." "Don't it hurt?" says the boy. "No, it don't," says the posy; "it 's real nice. You see, you get kind o' tired a-holdin' up your head straight and lookin' peart and wide awake, and tired o' the sun shinin' so hot, and the winds blowin' you to pieces, and the bees a-takin' your honey. So it 's nice to feel sleepy and kind o' hang your head down, and get sleepier and sleepier, and then find you 're droppin' off. Then you wake up jest 't the nicest time o' year, and come up and look 'round, I like to die, I do." But someways that did n't help Reuben much as you 'd think. "I ain't a posy," he think to himself, "and mebbe I would n't come up."

Well, another time he was settin' on a stone in the lower pastur', cryin' again, and he heerd another cur'us little voice. 'T wa' n't like the posy's voice, but 't was a little, wooly, soft, fuzzy voice, and he see 't was a caterpillar a-talkin' to him. And the caterpillar says, in his fuzzy little voice, he says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And the boy, he says, "I 'm powerful scaret o' dyin', that 's why," he says. And that fuzzy caterpillar he laughed. "Dyin'!" he says. "I 'm lottin' on dyin' myself. All my fam'ly," he says, "die every once in a while, and when they wake up they 're jest splendid,—got wings, and fly about, and live on honey and things. Why, I would n't miss it for anything!" he says. "I 'm lottin' on it." But somehow that did n't chirk up Reuben much. "I ain't a caterpillar," he says, "and mebbe I would n't wake up at all."

Well, there was lots o' other things talked to that boy, and tried to help him,—trees and posies and grass and crawlin' things, that was allers a-dyin' and livin', and livin' and dyin'. Reuben thought it did n't help him any, but I guess it did a little mite, for he could n't help thinkin' o' what they every one on 'em said. But he was scaret all the same.

And one summer he begun to fail up faster and faster, and he got so tired he could n't hardly hold his head up, but he was scaret all the same. And one day he was layin' on the bed, and lookin' out o' the east winder, and the sun kep' a-shinin' in his eyes till he shet 'em up, and he fell asleep. He had a real good nap, and when he woke up he went out to take a walk.

And he begun to think o' what the posies and trees and creaturs had said about dyin', and how they laughed at his bein' scaret at it, and he says to himself, "Why, someways I don't feel so scaret to-day, but I s'pose I be." And jest then what do you think he done? Why, he met a Angel. He 'd never seed one afore, but he knowed it right off. And the Angel says, "Ain't you happy, little boy?" And Reuben says, "Well, I would be, only I 'm so dreadful scaret o' dyin. It must be terr'ble cur'us," he says, "to be dead." And the Angel says, "Why, you be dead." And he was.