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The kettle which had been boiling itself hoarse for the last hour, was now called into requisition.,
In the front seat of the Wallace school sat Mannel Rodd. Nell Gordon declared that he was the roundest object she had ever seen in human form. Though he had arrived at the mature age of five, he still retained that cherubic appearance which one sees in the paintings of old masters. His eyes were as round as the rather sparsely-located buttons on his shirt. His nose was a small round knob. When he opened his little round mouth to lubricate a squeaky slate pencil or perhaps to enunciate some such interesting statement as this, “The cat is on the mat,” he disclosed a row of pearly little teeth. Indeed his whole face would have been as round as the moon, were it not that his chin took an unexpected little saucer-like curve in the very middle of it.,
“I love, thou lovest, he loves,” said Clarence, scornfully, in answer to this preposterous question.,
As that energetic lady bustled about the kitchen the same evening setting the bread, her voice rose in a series of trills and other embellishments as she sang “Where is my wanderin’ boy to-night?”
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Watchful Mrs. Bennett was not far away. She stopped the boy’s noise, and cuddled the bereft one once more. “What is it, child? You are to be brave, you know.”,
Mrs. Mifsud threw up her hands in dismay.,
“Billy,” she called.,
The perturbed lady wisely let the question pass not being absolutely clear herself as to the operation involved in the casting of lots. She hastened to take up the thread of the story.
“Come, Jethro, Betty’ll carry her li’l white puppykins, pore li’l footsy’s so sore.”
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“And Flash mewed just once, very softly. He couldn’t see the tramp cat, for the big oak tree hid him. But the second Tom answered his mew, Flash flew like a lightning streak, around the tree and up to that old, stealing feline cat. And he ran— O Billy, you’d have laughed an ache in your side if you could have seen him run,—over the fence, he ran again, across the street, down the sidewalk,—he never stopped till he came to the tip top of Mr. Potter’s big locust tree.”
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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.
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