It is only a little joke.
See, you're not dead--here, pick up your hat. See all the pigeons are
around us--you're not dead."
The boy seemed numb and twisted like the limb of a tree as the old man
following his horse helped him across the market-place and through the
lane.
"Don't be foolish, Peter. You're not dead. See the pigeons; see the
sky. Look, here is Luba--she will bring us soup."
But the boy squinted at the sun through a film of tears and with his
one-sided mouth mumbled: "I don't want a grave."
III
The Captain lit a cigarette as he leaned back in the carriage. The
horses snorted as they drew up the hill. "Why," he asked himself, "are
people afraid of dying? For many, life can hold little attraction, yet
even an imbecile fears death as though it were the devil himself. Yet
each man nurses his own pet fears."
The carriage rocked from side to side as it climbed the hill, and the
Captain turned his mind to his young wife. "It's all imagination; that's
what I think," he said to himself. "It's all in her mind. Now she's
afraid of this and afraid of that, and in this way she worries herself
ill.
"And the doctor thinks he knows it all, but he knows nothing. He should
have given her iron, she's too pale. Now we shall have to call him
again.
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