There warn’t nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town,and not pass it without seeing it. He said he’d be mighty sure to see it,because he’d be a free man the minute he seen it,but if he missed it he’d be in a slave country again and no more show for freedom.Every little while he jumps up and says:
“Dah she is?”
But it warn’t. It was Jack-o’-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set down again,and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it made him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom.Well, I can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him,because I begun to get it through my head that he _was_ most free—and who was to blame for it?Why, _me_. I couldn’t get that out of my conscience, no how nor no way.It got to troubling me so I couldn’t rest; I couldn’t stay still in one place.It hadn’t ever come home to me before, what this thing was that I was doing. But now it did;and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more.I tried to make out to myself that _I_ warn’t to blame,because _I_ didn’t run Jim off from his rightful owner; but it warn’t no use,conscience up and says, every time, “But you knowed he was running for his freedom,and you could a paddled ashore and told somebody.” That was so—I couldn’t get around that noway.That was where it pinched. Conscience says to me,“What had poor Miss Watson done to you that you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word?What did that poor old woman do to you that you could treat her so mean?Why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you your manners,she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how. _That’s_ what she done.”
I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead. I fidgeted up and down the raft,abusing myself to myself, and Jim was fidgeting up and down past me.We neither of us could keep still. Every time he danced around and says, “Dah’s Cairo!” it went through me like a shot, and I thought if it _was_ Cairo I reckoned I would die of miserableness.
Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself.He was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free State he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent,and when he got enough he would buy his wife,which was owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived;and then they would both work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn’t sell them,they’d get an Ab’litionist to go and steal them.
It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn’t ever dared to talk such talk in his life before.Just see what a difference it made in him the minute he judged he was about free.It was according to the old saying, “Give a nigger an inch and he’ll take an ell.” Thinks I,this is what comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger,which I had as good as helped to run away,coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his children—children that belonged to a man I didn’t even know; a man that hadn’t ever done me no harm.
I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him.My conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I says to it,“Let up on me—it ain’t too late yet—I’ll paddle ashore at the first light and tell.” I felt easy and happy and light as a feather right off. All my troubles was gone.I went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. By-and-by one showed. Jim sings out:
“We’s safe, Huck, we’s safe!Jump up and crack yo’ heels!Dat’s de good ole Cairo at las’, I jis knows it!”
I says:
“I’ll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn’t be, you know.”
He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on,and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says:
“Pooty soon I’ll be a-shout’n’ for joy, en I’ll say, it’s all on accounts o’ Huck; I’s a free man,en I couldn’t ever ben free ef it hadn’ ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won’t ever forgit you,Huck; you’s de bes’ fren’ Jim’s ever had; en you’s de _only_ fren’ ole Jim’s got now.”
I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this,it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow then,and I warn’t right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I warn’t. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:
“Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on’y white genlman dat ever kep’ his promise to ole Jim.”
Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I _got_ to do it—I can’t get _out_ of it.Right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says:
“What’s that yonder?”
“A piece of a raft,” I says.
“Do you belong on it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any men on it?”
“Only one, sir.”
“Well, there’s five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above the head of the bend. Is your man white or black?”
I didn’t answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn’t come.I tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it,but I warn’t man enough—hadn’t the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening;so I just give up trying, and up and says:
“He’s white.”
“I reckon we’ll go and see for ourselves.”
“I wish you would,” says I, “because it’s pap that’s there,and maybe you’d help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He’s sick—and so is mam and Mary Ann.”
“Oh, the devil!we’re in a hurry, boy. But I s’pose we’ve got to. Come, buckle to your paddle, and let’s get along.”
I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made a stroke or two, I says:
“Pap’ll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you.Everybody goes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can’t do it by myself.”
“Well, that’s infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what’s the matter with your father?”
“It’s the—a—the—well, it ain’t anything much.”
They stopped pulling. It warn’t but a mighty little ways to the raft now. One says:
“Boy, that’s a lie. What _is_ the matter with your pap?Answer up square now, and it’ll be the better for you.”
“I will, sir, I will, honest—but don’t leave us, please. It’s the—the—gentlemen,if you’ll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline,you won’t have to come a-near the raft—please do.”
“Set her back, John, set her back!” says one. They backed water. “Keep away, boy—keep to looard. Confound it,I just expect the wind has blowed it to us. Your pap’s got the small-pox,and you know it precious well. Why didn’t you come out and say so?Do you want to spread it all over?”
“Well,” says I, a-blubbering, “I’ve told everybody before, and they just went away and left us.”
“Poor devil, there’s something in that. We are right down sorry for you, but we—well, hang it,we don’t want the small-pox, you see. Look here, I’ll tell you what to do.Don’t you try to land by yourself, or you’ll smash everything to pieces.You float along down about twenty miles,and you’ll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. It will be long after sun-up then,and when you ask for help you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever.Don’t be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter.Now we’re trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that’s a good boy.It wouldn’t do any good to land yonder where the light is—it’s only a wood-yard. Say,I reckon your father’s poor, and I’m bound to say he’s in pretty hard luck. Here,I’ll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by.I feel mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom!it won’t do to fool with small-pox, don’t you see?”
“Hold on, Parker,” says the other man, “here’s a twenty to put on the board for me. Good-bye, boy;you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you’ll be all right.”
“That’s so, my boy—good-bye, good-bye. If you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it.”
“Good-bye, sir,” says I; “I won’t let no runaway niggers get by me if I can help it.”
They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low,because I knowed very well I had done wrong,and I see it warn’t no use for me to try to learn to do right;a body that don’t get _started_ right when he’s little ain’t got no show—when the pinch comes there ain’t nothing to back him up and keep him to his work,and so he gets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on;s’pose you’d a done right and give Jim up, would you felt better than what you do now?No, says I, I’d feel bad—I’d feel just the same way I do now. Well, then, says I,what’s the use you learning to do right when it’s troublesome to do right and ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same?I was stuck. I couldn’t answer that. So I reckoned I wouldn’t bother no more about it,but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time.
I went into the wigwam; Jim warn’t there. I looked all around; he warn’t anywhere. I says:
“Jim!”
“Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o’ sight yit?Don’t talk loud.”
He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. He says:
“I was a-listenin’ to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho’ if dey come aboard.Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf’ agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool ’em, Huck!Dat _wuz_ de smartes’ dodge!I tell you, chile, I ’speck it save’ ole Jim—ole Jim ain’t going to forgit you for dat, honey.”
Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise—twenty dollars apiece.Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now,and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free States.He said twenty mile more warn’t far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there.
Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about hiding the raft good.Then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting.
That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend.
I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man out in the river with a skiff,setting a trot-line. I ranged up and says:
“Mister, is that town Cairo?”
“Cairo?no. You must be a blame’ fool.”
“What town is it, mister?”
“If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin’ around me for about a half a minute longer you’ll get something you won’t want. ”
I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never mind,Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned.
We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again; but it was high ground,so I didn’t go. No high ground about Cairo, Jim said. I had forgot it.We laid up for the day on a tow-head tolerable close to the left-hand bank.I begun to suspicion something. So did Jim. I says:
“Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night.”
He says:
“Doan’ le’s talk about it, Huck. Po’ niggers can’t have no luck.I awluz ’spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn’t done wid its work.”
“I wish I’d never seen that snake-skin, Jim—I do wish I’d never laid eyes on it.”
“It ain’t yo’ fault, Huck; you didn’ know. Don’t you blame yo’self’bout it.”
When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular Muddy!So it was all up with Cairo.
We talked it all over. It wouldn’t do to take to the shore; we couldn’t take the raft up the stream,of course. There warn’t no way but to wait for dark,and start back in the canoe and take the chances.So we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work,and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was gone!
We didn’t say a word for a good while. There warn’t anything to say.We both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it?It would only look like we was finding fault,and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck—and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still.
By-and-by we talked about what we better do,and found there warn’t no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go back in.We warn’t going to borrow it when there warn’t anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us.
So we shoved out after dark on the raft.
Anybody that don’t believe yet that it’s foolishness to handle a snake-skin,after all that that snake-skin done for us,will believe it now if they read on and see what more it done for us.
The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But we didn’t see no rafts laying up;so we went along during three hours and more. Well, the night got gray and ruther thick,which is the next meanest thing to fog. You can’t tell the shape of the river,and you can’t see no distance. It got to be very late and still,and then along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged she would see it.Up-stream boats didn’t generly come close to us;they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs;but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river.
We could hear her pounding along, but we didn’t see her good till she was close.She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try to see how close they can come without touching;sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs,and thinks he’s mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we said she was going to try and shave us;but she didn’t seem to be sheering off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry,too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it;but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary,with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth,and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. There was a yell at us,and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing,and whistling of steam—and as Jim went overboard on one side and I on the other,she come smashing straight through the raft.
I dived—and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me,and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I could always stay under water a minute;this time I reckon I stayed under a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry,for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my armpits and blowed the water out of my nose,and puffed a bit. Of course there was a booming current;and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them,for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she was churning along up the river,out of sight in the thick weather, though I could hear her.
I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn’t get any answer;so I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was “treading water,” and struck out for shore,shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore,which meant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went that way.
It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a good long time in getting over.I made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. I couldn’t see but a little ways,but I went poking along over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more,and then I run across a big old-fashioned double log-house before I noticed it.I was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me,and I knowed better than to move another peg.
CHAPTER XVII.
In about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out, and says:
“Be done, boys!Who’s there?”
I says:
“It’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“George Jackson, sir.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs won’t let me.”
“What are you prowling around here this time of night for—hey?”
“I warn’t prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat.”
“Oh, you did, did you?Strike a light there, somebody. What did you say your name was?”
“George Jackson, sir. I’m only a boy.”
“Look here, if you’re telling the truth you needn’t be afraid—nobody’ll hurt you.But don’t try to budge; stand right where you are. Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you,and fetch the guns. George Jackson, is there anybody with you?”
“No, sir, nobody.”
I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. The man sung out:
“Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool—ain’t you got any sense?Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and Tom are ready, take your places.”
“All ready.”
“Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?”
“No, sir; I never heard of them.”
“Well, that may be so, and it mayn’t. Now, all ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind,don’t you hurry—come mighty slow. If there’s anybody with you,let him keep back—if he shows himself he’ll be shot. Come along now. Come slow;push the door open yourself—just enough to squeeze in, d’ you hear?”
I didn’t hurry; I couldn’t if I’d a wanted to.I took one slow step at a time and there warn’t a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart.The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me.When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting.I put my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, “There,that’s enough—put your head in.” I done it, but I judged they would take it off.
The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them,for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince,I tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty,the other two thirty or more—all of them fine and handsome—and the sweetest old gray-headed lady,and back of her two young women which I couldn’t see right well. The old gentleman says:
“There; I reckon it’s all right. Come in.”
As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it,and told the young men to come in with their guns,and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor,and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows—there warn’t none on the side.They held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, “Why, _he_ ain’t a Shepherdson—no,there ain’t any Shepherdson about him.” Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn’t mind being searched for arms,because he didn’t mean no harm by it—it was only to make sure. So he didn’t pry into my pockets,but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right.He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says:
“Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing’s as wet as he can be;and don’t you reckon it may be he’s hungry?”
“True for you, Rachel—I forgot.”
So the old lady says:
“Betsy” (this was a nigger woman), “you fly around and get him something to eat as quick as you can,poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake up Buck and tell him—oh, here he is himself. Buck,take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that’s dry. ”
Buck looked about as old as me—thirteen or fourteen or along there,though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn’t on anything but a shirt,and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging one fist into his eyes,and he was dragging a gun along with the other one. He says:
“Ain’t they no Shepherdsons around?”
They said, no, ’twas a false alarm.
“Well,” he says, “if they’d a ben some, I reckon I’d a got one.”
They all laughed, and Bob says:
“Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you’ve been so slow in coming.”
“Well, nobody come after me, and it ain’t right I’m always kept down; I don’t get no show.”
“Never mind, Buck, my boy,” says the old man, “you’ll have show enough, all in good time,don’t you fret about that. Go ’long with you now, and do as your mother told you.”
When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his,and I put them on. While I was at it he asked me what my name was,but before I could tell him he started to tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday,and he asked me where Moses was when the candle went out. I said I didn’t know; I hadn’t heard about it before, no way.
“Well, guess,” he says.
“How’m I going to guess,” says I, “when I never heard tell of it before?”
“But you can guess, can’t you?It’s just as easy.”
“_Which_ candle?” I says.
“Why, any candle,” he says.
“I don’t know where he was,” says I; “where was he?”
“Why, he was in the _dark!_ That’s where he was!”
“Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?”
“Why, blame it, it’s a riddle, don’t you see?Say, how long are you going to stay here?You got to stay always. We can just have booming times—they don’t have no school now. Do you own a dog?I’ve got a dog—and he’ll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in.Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness?You bet I don’t, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches!I reckon I’d better put ’em on, but I’d ruther not, it’s so warm. Are you all ready?All right. Come along, old hoss.”
Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk—that is what they had for me down there,and there ain’t nothing better that ever I’ve come across yet.Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone,and the two young women. They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked.The young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs.They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw,and my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more,and Bill went to hunt them and he warn’t heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died,and then there warn’t nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing,on account of his troubles; so when he died I took what there was left,because the farm didn’t belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard;and that was how I come to be here. So they said I could have a home there as long as I wanted it.Then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck,and when I waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was.So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when Buck waked up I says:
“Can you spell, Buck?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I bet you can’t spell my name,” says I.
“I bet you what you dare I can,” says he.
“All right,” says I, “go ahead.”
“G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n—there now,” he says.
“Well,” says I, “you done it, but I didn’t think you could.It ain’t no slouch of a name to spell—right off without studying.”
I set it down, private, because somebody might want _me_ to spell it next,and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was used to it.
It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too.I hadn’t seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style.It didn’t have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin string,but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. There warn’t no bed in the parlor,nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them.There was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom,and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick;sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown,same as they do in town. They had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log.There was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece,with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front,and a round place in the middle of it for the sun,and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. It was beautiful to hear that clock tick;and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape,she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out. They wouldn’t took any money for her.
Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of something like chalk,and painted up gaudy. By one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery,and a crockery dog by the other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked,but didn’t open their mouths nor look different nor interested. They squeaked through underneath.There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those things.On the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it,which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real ones is,but they warn’t real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath.
This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth,with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around.It come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books, too,piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. One was a big family Bible full of pictures.One was Pilgrim’s Progress, about a man that left his family, it didn’t say why.I read considerable in it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough.Another was Friendship’s Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry;but I didn’t read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay’s Speeches, and another was Dr.Gunn’s Family Medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead.There was a hymn book, and a lot of other books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs,and perfectly sound, too—not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket.
They had pictures hung on the walls—mainly Washingtons and Lafayettes, and battles,and Highland Marys, and one called “Signing the Declaration.” There was some that they called crayons,which one of the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old.They was different from any pictures I ever see before—blacker, mostly, than is common.One was a woman in a slim black dress, belted small under the armpits,with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves,and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil,and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel,and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow,and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule,and underneath the picture it said “Shall I Never See Thee More Alas.” Another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head,and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back,and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up,and underneath the picture it said “I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas.” There was one where a young lady was at a window looking up at the moon,and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing wax showing on one edge of it,and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth,and underneath the picture it said “And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas.” These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn’t somehow seem to take to them,because if ever I was down a little they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died,because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do,and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost.But I reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard.She was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick,and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done,but she never got the chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown,standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back,and looking up to the moon, with the tears running down her face,and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front,and two more reaching up towards the moon—and the idea was to see which pair would look best,and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying,she died before she got her mind made up,and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room,and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it.Other times it was hid with a little curtain.The young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face,but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me.
This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive,and used to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the _Presbyterian Observer_,and write poetry after them out of her own head. It was very good poetry.This is what she wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was drownded:
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC’D
And did young Stephen sicken, And did young Stephen die?And did the sad hearts thicken, And did the mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate of Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sad hearts round him thickened, ’Twas not from sickness’ shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame, Nor measles drear with spots;Not these impaired the sacred name Of Stephen Dowling Bots.