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Imm jest cum back from Jones,'
An' my old eyes are dim
With tears, for I wuz present
W'eu death cum after Jim;
Ycr know he had the fever,
An' how the doctor said
He never could recover-
Yes, Marthy, Jim is dead.
W'eu I K»t thar his mother
Wuz kiieeliiT by his side.
An' both her ban's held his v.
She watched his face an' cried;
A dimly burnin' caudle
Throwed light about the room
An' all wuz still exceptiu'
Her wails of grief au' gloom.
The preacher an' the uabers
Stood weepin' 'roun the bed,
An' Bill, the poor boy's father,
Iv sorrer hung his head.
His heart wuz almost broken,
'Twuz bleediu' sore an' sad.
It wuz the hour o' partiu'
Wi' the only child he had.
His mother riz an' kissed him,
Iyocked in her warm embrace,
She moaned: "Oh! kiss me; kiss me.
An' tears fell on his face;
He oped his eyes an' whispered,
His face put on er smile:
"Ise doiu' ter heaven, mamma,
Oo turn up after 'while."
The preacher sed: "God saycth,
'Ter all of seteh ez he,
" -You suffer little chil'ren
Ter cum up here ter me,
The nabors gathered closer
Around that bed an' cried,
We'u little Jim sed: "Mamma;
"Dood bye, Pap!" on' died.
l'oor Bill! I'll tell yer, Marthy,
My eyes with tears got dim,
W'eu Tseed Bill 'er weepin,
My heart went out ter him,
I told him that "in heaven
lim's life 'ould be a joy,"
"I know," said he, "but heaven
Won't give me back my boy.
] left Bill's wife iv sadness
With sorreriu each breath,
An' tryiu' ter warm with kisses
The lips sealed cold in death,
I left them in thar trouble,
Shuck ban's with her an' him,
An' cum away a thiukiu'
God wanted little Jim.
Well, let us read our Bible,
An' kneel in pra'r ter Him,
An' ask that He will welcome
The soul of Little Jim,
An' trust sum day iv heaven,
The parents' heart with joy,
Will meet a white-winged angel-
Bill Jones' little boy.
—Will S. Hays, in Courier Journal.
By Ermiutinc Young.
I'erhaps the name had something to do
with it. At any rate, ever since she was a
little «irl, the family and neighbors had
marvelled over Keziah's idiosyncrasies.
But the springtime of tfrlbood had long
since departed, and each added year had
brought with it an increasing number of in
stances that proved to the world at large
and Berrytown in particular, that Keziah
Flint was not as other people.
I remember the first time I saw her as if
it were yesterday. We had lately moved
to the town, and she was the Hrst person
who called upon my mother.
My sister Carrie and I were playing on
the lawn—we called it a "front yard" in
those days—when we saw coming toward
us a tall, thin female, whose gait was in no
wise impeded by the length of her Bkirts.
Her boots were made for comfort rather
than elegance, and her bonnet—how shall I
describe it? A black silk calash, the in
ventor of which must have lain awake
nights to have concocted a thing »o ugly.
Instead ot greeting us with the customary
salutation, Uvs. Flint, eyeing us dieap-
proviugly, said: "My little girl doesn't
was^e her time in silly play. She is at
home making patchwork "
Of this particular visit I have no other
recollection, but both Carrie aud I agreed
in pitying Mrs. Flint's little girl.
Sunday morning found us all seated in
church, and just after the opening prayer
in came Keziah and her little Florinda.
Our eyes were for a moment rivited upon
that remarkable headgear of Keziah's, and
then we turned to the little Florinda.
Nature had intended her for a round
taeed, curley-headed darling, but art, di
rected by Keziah, had converted her into a
prim, uncomfortable little old woman.
Patchwork aud knitting Beamed eugraven
upon her face.
As to her dress, Mrs. Flint explained her
views to my mother: "Yes, I know hoop
skirts will be worn again, and so I always
make Florinda's dresses over one. I don't
intend my child's vanity shall be encour
aged." And she glanced meaningly at our
The text of that Sunday morning's ser
mon 1 could not have told you, for I was
too much occupied with watching the
Flints. The sun poured in on Keziah's
shoulders, and in the most natural way in
the world she raised her umbrella.
Evidently this was no unusual proceed
ing, for no one but Cairie and I paid any
attention to it.
It was but a few days after this that she
told mother of her courtship.
"I never did intend to live a life of single
blessedness," she said, "and so when I saw
Jacob I made up my mind at once that he
would make a very suitable husband."
"But how did you convince him of that?''
asked my mother, wondering how any man
could have tha courage, of his own free
will, to propose to Keziah.
"Mrs. Charles," answered Mrs. Flint,
"have you not yet learned that a woman
cau do whatever she undertakes? Jacob
was a little difficult to approach at first, but
by perseverance I was able to convince him
that our marriage would be an excellent
thing for us both. He did sugajflst think
ing about the matter for three mouths he
fore deciding, but I vetoed that at once,
knowing that his sister might put ridiculous
ideas into his head."
"Then it wasn't really a lov* match?"
naid mother, with an amused look.
"Well, perhaps you might not call it sc%
but it proved very satisfactory, for I never
allowed him to say an unpleasant word,
and when death claimed him, ten years,
three months and five days ago, he seemed
happy and contented to go."
Mother thought that very likely.
"As for dressing in mourning, I had al
ways done that, to be prepared for any
"Parson L came to see me once about
my bonnet," she continued, "asking me if I
would please change the style of it, as it
attracted so much attention. I told him I
had just bought a new one, but should con
tinue to wear this old one till people had
ceased to look. That was tive yeais ago,
and the new bonnet has never been worn
but once--at Jacob's funeral."
The Flint farm was but a short distance
from our own, and Mrs. Flint was very
neighborly, running in at the most peculiar
hours, from 7 in the morning until 12 at
Uulike ladies in general, Keziah was sen
sitive upon the point of age, and always
said when birthdays were mentioned that
Bhe was "thirty and upwards." The "up
wards" we tilled in to suit ourselves.
One day Carrie and I received a note in
viting us to spend the following Wednes
day with Florinda. as it was her birthday.
It was with mingled dread and delight that
we looked forward to the day, for we held
FloriDda only a little less in awe than we
did her mother.
Many of our hours were speut in wonder
ing about this child, so different from any
we had kcown. We couldn't forget the af
ternoon she had spent with us, and our pity
and surprise when we found that she was
unacquainted with "Cinderella," and of
"Hop o' My Thumb' had never heard.
She listened with interest for a tune while
I told her some of the wonders of Fairy
land and then, the patchwork expression
coming back, said: "Mother doesn't ap
prove of stories that are not true."
After this we looked upon Florinda as an
unknown quantity, and the thoughts of
visiting her were attended with as nr.uch
expectancy as visitiug "Alice in Wonder
land" would have been. In fact, of the two
children I think Alice seemed the more
Wednesday came at last, and with beat
ing hearts we knocked at Mrs. Flint's door.
She and Florinda met us very kindly, and
after our wraps were laid aside Mrs. Flint
said: "Now children, you may each sew up
a sheet, and I will read one ot Florinda's
great-grandfather's sermons to you."
How long it was, and how uninteresting
to us! Many a time before the hour and
fifteen minute that it took to read it were
up did I wish that Florinda had never had
a great-grandfather, or that he had never
written any sermons.
"But "lastly my bretheru" was finally
reached and we were allowed to put aside
Then as an especial treat Keziah took us
into the best parlor and showed us her rel
ioa. Florinda seemed highly delighted with
this exciting pastime, and Carrie and I
were more awestruck than ever.
Here was the shoe worn by a Chinese
woman fifty years ago; a bone taken from
Jacob's finger at the time he had a bad
felon was carefully preserved. Bits of finger
nails cut from the hands of Keziah's two
boys who had died, particularly pleased
Florinda, and she kindly handed them to
me, but I declined taking them. Quaint
old dresses worn by ladies of a hundred
years ago seemed to bring with them an
odor of bygone days. Bits of parchment
whose value we children could not then un
derstand were carefully handled. Delicate