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As Mrs. Wopp adjusted her bonnet before leaving the house, she gave minute instructions to Mr. Wopp. “For three days an’ three nights there was no sleep fer his eyes nor slumber fer his eyelets.” 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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“My papa told me to be a very brave little girl, and no matter what happened to take care of my mama. And now—I’ve l-lost her; and my braveness is all leaking away.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly. “What’s the trouble, dear? What were you afraid of?” she enquired, as she raised him to his feet. “Moses!” called husband and wife, simultaneously. Mrs. Wopp’s voice spanned an interval of about a dozen semi-tones, and as it always grew in volume in direct ratio to the emergency of the duty to be imposed, the last syllable of her son’s name fell on that wretched boy’s ear like a clap of thunder. Mr. Wopp’s accents remained on nearly all occasions at the same even degree of meekness. Nature had not given him the temperament to indulge in crescendos or double fortes. Not unwillingly the boy relinquished his task. Weeding after all is thankless work. The weeds will persist in growing in spite of every discouragement..