ays repeating that same old story, beginning with "Once ther' wuz a
littl' boy."

The curious part of it was this: that while he implied by his
confidences to the children that his own little boy was dead, he never
made that admission to others. On the contrary, it was his wont, as I
have said, to speak of little Abel as if that child still lived, and,
humoring him in this conceit, it was the custom of the older ones to
speak always of that child as if he lived and were known and beloved of
all. In this custom the old man had great content and solace. For it
was his wish that all he gave to and did for charity's sake should be
known to come, not from him, but from Abel, his son, and this was his
express stipulation at all such times. I know whereof I speak, for I
was one of those to whom the old man came upon a time and said: "My
little boy--Abel, you know--will give me no peace till I do what he
requires. He has this sum of money which he has saved in his bank,
count it yourselves, it is $50,000, and he bids me give it to the
townsfolk for a hospital, one for little lame boys and girls. And I
have promised him--my little boy, Abel, you know--that I will give
$50,000 more. You shall have it when that hospital is built." Surely
enough, in eighteen months' time the old man handed us the rest of the
money, and when we told him that the place was to be called the Abel
Dunklee hospital he was sorely distressed, and shook his head, and
said: "No, no,--not _my_ name! Call it the _Little_ Abel hospital, for
little Abel--my boy, you know--has done it all."

The old man lived many years,--lived to hear tender voices bless him,
and to see pale faces brighten at the sound of his footfall. Yes, for
many years the quaint, shuffling figure moved about our streets, and
his hoarse but kindly voice--oh, very kindly now!--was heard repeating
to the children that pathetic old story of "Once ther' wuz a littl'
boy." And where the dear old feet trod the grass grew greenest, and
the sunbeams nestled. But at last there came a summons for the old
man,--a summons from away off yonder,--and the old man heard it and
went thither.

The doctor--himself hoary and stooping now--told me that toward the
last Old Grampa Growly sunk into a sort of sleep, or stupor, from which
they could not rouse him. For many hours he lay like one dead, but his
thin, creased face was very peaceful, and there was no pain. Children
tiptoed in with flowers,