“The daughter of a Court Street baker died. It was in winter, and the father, knowing that a married sister of his dead child, who lived in St. Louis, would like to see her face before being laid in the grave forever, had the body placed in the vault, waiting her arrival. The sister came, the vault was opened, the lid of the coffin taken off, when, to the unutterable horror of the friends assembled, they found the grave clothes torn in shreds, and the fingers of both hands eaten off. The girl had been buried alive.
Mistakes were made (and we’ve got the sorry tales in the Death issue of Lapham’s Quarterly).

“The daughter of a Court Street baker died. It was in winter, and the father, knowing that a married sister of his dead child, who lived in St. Louis, would like to see her face before being laid in the grave forever, had the body placed in the vault, waiting her arrival. The sister came, the vault was opened, the lid of the coffin taken off, when, to the unutterable horror of the friends assembled, they found the grave clothes torn in shreds, and the fingers of both hands eaten off. The girl had been buried alive.

Mistakes were made (and we’ve got the sorry tales in the Death issue of Lapham’s Quarterly).