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“Howard Eliot may larf, but I think these writin’s is real clever.” Mrs. Wopp grew thoughtful, “Moses’ Aunt Lucindy’s cousin, by marriage, had talents fer literatoor. But the pore girl married an undertaker an’ she writ no more.” “She’s the swellest looking one in the whole school,” he whispered to his smiling mother. For two days the aromas from the kitchen had been such as to dispel the gloom from Moses’ countenance, and hope and anticipation blended on his youthful visage..

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“And I’m always going to be your little girl, too,” the child pleaded; “so Billy must be my papa’s little boy.” “You remember that story about a man who died for love of a girl because he knew he ought not to marry her? I thought that sort kind of noble, but you said there was nobler. Do you remember?” “It’s a terrible disease, shorely,” interpolated Mrs. Wopp. “Ebenezer’s sisten-in-law’s cousin hed it, an’ fer a long time she was as yaller as a biled turnip. Her feelin’s was low, too, an’ she thort she was goin’ to die. She made her will, leavin’ her clothes an’ her cat, which was all she hed, to an ole men’s refuge. But lan’ sakes! she’s alive yet an’ peart as a robin. She got a set o’ false teeth an’ a switch jist larst month.” “A new kind of hen,” retorted Moses..