Back in an obscure part of old Russia, where many things seem to operate more strangely than they do here, two fellows made a solemn pact that the one who died first would make every effort to make contact with the one left on earth. The older was the first to go, and for months the younger man waited in vain for a word or a sign.
One day, however, as he was walking down a side street, he heard a low voice calling his name
"My friend," said the voice, "It's me."
He peered frantically in every direction but the only living thing in sight was a spindly, underfed horse, hitched to a dilapidated ice-wagon.
"Yes," said the horse sadly, "It's me. Live as long as you can, for see what happens when you die. The pig who owns me beats me, starves me, and makes me lug this ice-wagon around sixteen hours a day."
"But," protested the other, "you can talk. Why don't you denounce him?"
"S-s-s-h," cautioned the horse. "Don't let him know I can talk. He'll have me hollering 'Ice!'"