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“Oh go on Betty, a daddy-long-legs’d die of starvin’ on what you eat.” “Sing something, Mar.” Betty’s plaintive voice broke the silence. “Whose Jethro?”.

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Billy thought he detected a touch of resigned disappointment in her words, and looked up with a sudden wonder widening his eyes, making them shine even in the dim light of the shaded lamp. “Do you want me to preach, mamma?” He laughed coarsely. “George Smith’s kid, all right. You’ve got the same high way with you.” Billy heeded no prize-ring rules, no boys’ traditions of fair play. Every savage instinct inherited from far-distant ancestors and sleeping till to-day, rose, conquered the human in him, for the moment made him brutish. And the sobs of the little girls were as whips of fire. But May Nell was not to be comforted, till that evening when she composed a wonderful ode to “The Wreck of the Fair Ellen.”.