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CHAPTER VI.—AN EVENING IN THE WOPP PARLOR. A haughty toss of the head was all the reply vouchsafed to this brotherly jibe. “Oh, Lord, she’s orl I got,” he wailed. He hinted that there would be no more light in him, than in Job’s blind eye, should Betty be lost to him..

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“Obedience, thy name is cats,” Billy preached solemnly. St. Elmo’s face brightened with intelligence. He broke into the story to give a graphic account of how a little yellow chicken of his sister’s had got “dwownded” in the pig-trough. What more might he do to hasten the Saturday work? He could not chop the kindling or fill the wood boxes. The weeding! It was behind. Both mother and sister had reminded him repeatedly, but he had forgotten. Only yesterday his sister had made tidy the flower beds that flanked the house; but the melons, the vegetables,—they were not done, and that would make no noise. “Naw Nosey,” he retorted, “there ain’t no bun to break in two, the dorg is outside the bun already.”.