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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. “Don’t care a doughnut,” answered Moses defiantly, “I’d ruther turn the washin’ machine any day than stand like a goose spellin’ words any arss can spell.” Another sound in a somewhat higher key was heard. Moses had simply modulated in his domestic symphony of labor from a major task to a minor one. As a change and refreshing recreation, Moses was allowed to turn the small wheat-mill. Ninety soul-stirring turns it required to empty the hopper once, and he must turn out enough flour for a batch of bread. His youthful soul was in revolt at such servitude. He had no sympathy to squander on the children of Israel in bondage vile. Making bricks for Pharoah was infantile amusement compared to his labor..

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“Must of warlked in when I left a jint outside fer a minute. She shore is a dark complected bird now.” As Moses spoke he stretched out his arm for the sooty Tillie, but with an indignant cackle the hen tore through the dining-room into the kitchen with Moses and Betty in hot pursuit. “Never mind yer notes, Ebenezer, jist you sarve the pork.” Mrs. Bennett put down the pan of batter-cake dough and gave him his good-morning kiss. His head was level with hers. “Thank you, my big boy. Mother will soon have a man to look to. Go in and get your breakfast; you must be nearly famished.” “You needn’t fight any more,” Vilette said, loftily; “we shall marry her ourselves.”.