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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. “What’s the Golden Text, Norer?” “Never mind Mosey, Next Monday I’m goin’ to ask Mar to let me stay home and turn the nasty mouldy machine.”.

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A crowd of smaller children momentarily increasing, capered about the sweating five. Max bounded over the high fence, breathless, fearing he would be late. Jean and Bess hurried down the hill, each telling the other she couldn’t spare the time for “just boys’ foolishness.” Jackson appeared on top of the south stone abutment, halting there till Billy’s hearty invitation brought him flying down into the inclosure. Then Moses commenced. He ran up and down a chromatic scale of puffs and groans and sniffles, ending with a cadence that sounded like, “Gosh dern!” “And what’s the ‘chinning’ to be about?” she questioned, sitting on the bedside; “the fortune?” “No more, kitties; that’s all that is good for you. Go back to your chair.”.