Fall 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 4 FictionOctober 1, 1956 |

The Retirement of Professor John Underhill

John Underhill drove slowly along the winding cemetery road because it was narrow and uphill and because, consciously or not, he always did what seemed the proper thing to do. The young man next to him, whom the Superintendent of Lakeview Cemetery had assigned the job of satisfying Professor Underhill's needs and desires insofar as it was within their power to do so, sat quietly. Professor Underhill noted the lines of cypress trees on either side of the road. The young man had said some of the newer cemeteries not only had no cypress trees but prohibited both mausoleums and grave stones; there were no mounds either; all that marked the final resting place was a name on a small piece of metal. The young man implied that Lakeview Cemetery believed one deserved more than this; however old-fashioned mounds and stones might seem to some, they bespoke a sense of the individuality and personal dignity of the departed. Professor Underhill had no opinion in the matter, and he had not replied

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