LITMIR.BIZ

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and kep’ the run of the med’cin, and the times of giving it, and sot up nights and nussed her, and tried to keep up her sperits, the same as a grownup person. And last night when she kep’ a sinking and sinking, and turned away her head and didn’t know him no mo’, it was fitten to make a body’s heart break to see him climb onto the bed and lay his cheek agin hern and call her so pitiful and she not answer. But bymeby she roused up, like, and looked around wild, and then she see him, and she made a great cry and snatched him to her breast and hilt him close and kissed him over and over agin; but it took the last po’ strength she had, and so her eyelids begin to close down, and her arms sort o’ drooped away and then we see she was gone, po’ creetur. And Clay, he — Oh, the po’ motherless thing — I cain’t talk about it — I cain’t bear to talk about it.”

      Clay had disappeared from the door; but he came in, now, and the neighbors reverently fell apart and made way for him. He leaned upon the open coffin and let his tears course silently. Then he put out his small hand and smoothed the hair and stroked the dead face lovingly. After a bit he brought his other hand up from behind him and laid three or four fresh wild flowers upon the breast, bent over and kissed the unresponsive lips time and time again, and then turned away and went out of the house without looking at any of the company. The old lady said to Hawkins:

      “She always loved that kind o’ flowers. He fetched ‘em for her every morning, and she always kissed him. They was from away north somers — she kep’ school when she fust come. Goodness knows what’s to become o’ that po’ boy. No father, no mother, no kin folks of no kind. Nobody to go to, nobody that k’yers for him — and all of us is so put to it for to get along and families so large.”

      Hawkins understood. All eyes were turned inquiringly upon him. He said:

      “Friends, I am not very well provided for, myself, but still I would not turn my back on a homeless orphan. If he will go with me I will give him a home, and loving regard — I will do for him as I would have another do for a child of my own in misfortune.”

      One after another the people stepped forward and wrung the stranger’s hand with cordial good will, and their eyes looked all that their hands could not express or their lips speak.

      “Said like a true man,” said one.

      “You was a stranger to me a minute ago, but you ain’t now,” said another.

      “It’s bread cast upon the waters — it’ll return after many days,” said the old lady whom we have heard speak before.

      “You got to camp in my house as long as you hang out here,” said one. “If tha hain’t room for you and yourn my tribe’ll turn out and camp in the hay loft.”

      A few minutes afterward, while the preparations for the funeral were being concluded, Mr. Hawkins arrived at his wagon leading his little waif by the hand, and told his wife all that had happened, and asked her if he had done right in giving to her and to himself this new care? She said:

      “If you’ve done wrong, Si Hawkins, it’s a wrong that will shine brighter at the judgment day than the rights that many a man has done before you. And there isn’t any compliment you can pay me equal to doing a thing like this and finishing it up, just taking it for granted that I’ll be willing to it. Willing? Come to me; you poor motherless boy, and let me take your grief and help you carry it.”

      When the child awoke in the morning, it was as if from a troubled dream. But slowly the confusion in his mind took form, and he remembered his great loss; the beloved form in the coffin; his talk with a generous stranger who offered him a home; the funeral, where the stranger’s wife held him by the hand at the grave, and cried with him and comforted him; and he remembered how this, new mother tucked him in his bed in the neighboring farm house, and coaxed him to talk about his troubles, and then heard him say his prayers and kissed him good night, and left him with the soreness in his heart almost healed and his bruised spirit at rest.

      And now the new mother came again, and helped him to dress, and combed his hair, and drew his mind away by degrees from the dismal yesterday, by telling him about the wonderful journey he was going to take and the strange things he was going to see. And after breakfast they two went alone to the grave, and his heart went out to his new friend and his untaught eloquence poured the praises of his buried idol into her ears without let or hindrance. Together they planted roses by the headboard and strewed wild flowers upon the grave; and then together they went away, hand in hand, and left the dead to the long sleep that heals all heartaches and ends all sorrows.

      CHAPTER III.

      Table of Contents

      Whatever the lagging dragging journey may have been to the rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and delight to the children, a world of enchantment; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire.

      At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a shabby village which was caving, house by house, into the hungry Mississippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile-breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a continent which surely none but they had ever seen before.

      “Uncle Dan’l” (colored,) aged 40; his wife, “aunt Jinny,” aged 30, “Young Miss” Emily Hawkins, “Young Mars” Washington Hawkins and “Young Mars” Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed it. The moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled crash of a carving bank in the distance.

      The little company assembled on the log were all children (at least in simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they made about the river were in keeping with the character; and so awed were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before them, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan’l exclaimed:

      “Chil’en, dah’s sum fin a comin!”

      All crowded close together and every heart beat faster.

      Uncle Dan’l pointed down the river with his bony finger.

      A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape that jetted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession.

      “What is it! Oh, what is it, Uncle Dan’l!”

      With deep solemnity the answer came:

      “It’s de Almighty! Git down on yo’ knees!”

      It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling, in a moment. And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro’s voice lifted up its supplications:

      “O Lord’, we’s ben mighty wicked, an’ we knows dat we ‘zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, deah

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