While walking along the sidewalk in front of his church, our minister heard the intoning voices of a prayer that nearly made his collar wilt. Apparently his five year old son and his playmates had found a dead robin. Feeling that a proper burial should be performed, they had secured a small box and cotton wool, then dug a hole and made ready for the disposal of the deceased.

The minister’s son was chosen to say the appropriate prayers and with sonorous dignity intoned his version of what he thought his father always said: ‘Glory be unto the Father, and unto the Son, and into the hole he goes.’ (Unto the Holy Ghost)

I want this story told at my funeral.