A lady in a southern town was approached by her colored maid.
"Well, Jenny?" she asked, seeing that something was in the air.
"Please, Mis' Mary, might I have the aft'noon off three weeks frum Wednesday?" Then, noticing an undecided look in her mistress's face, she added hastily—"I want to go to my finance's fun'ral."
"Goodness me," answered the lady—"Your finance's funeral! Why, you don't know that he's even going to die, let alone the date of his funeral. That is something we can't any of us be sure about—when we are going to die."
"Yes'm," said the girl doubtfully. Then, with a triumphant note in her voice—"I'se sure about him, Mis', 'cos he's goin' to be hung!"