of our own?' He said he'd always wanted to do it and
he knows the best things they is. He's terrible smart, my papa is. My
mamma says so, and she knows. My mamma and my papa know every single
thing there is. My papa he knows a place where a man that lived
hunderds and millions years ago dug a hole an' put something in it, I
reckon money; and my papa says if he'd a mind to he could go and dig
it right square up, out the ground, and buy my mamma a silk dress an'
me a little cart all red an'----"

"There, chatterbox! Get out the way! If you want to help, take that
little bucket to the spring and bring it full of water, to sprinkle
these plants."

"All right," cheerfully answered Saint Augustine, and ran swiftly
away.

Alas! he did not run swiftly back! Jim forgot all about him but toiled
faithfully on till little Saint Anne came out to call him to dinner.
She was his favorite of all the children, a tender-hearted little
maid with her mother's face and her mother's serene gentleness of
manner.

"Your dinner's ready, Mister Jim, and it's a mighty nice one, too. My
mamma said they was more that chicken than any sick boy could eat and
you was to have some. Wesley said couldn't we all have some but mamma
said no, 'twasn't ours. Chicken's nice, ain't it, with gravy?
Sometimes, don't you know? we have _'possum_, or _rabbit_, or
something _fine_. Sometimes, too, if papa's been to Uncle Wicky's he
fetches home a pie! Think o' that! Yes, sir, a _pie_! My Aunt Lizzie
makes 'em. Mamma never does. I guess--I guess, maybe, she thinks they
isn't healthy. Mamma's mighty partic'lar 't we shan't have 'rich
food;' that's what she calls Aunt Lizzie's pies, and maybe your
chicken, and the sick boy's cream. My mamma dassent let us use any
cream, ourselves. She has to keep it for papa's butter. _She_ don't
eat any butter. It doesn't agree with her stummy. I guess she thinks
it don't with mine. I never have any. The sick boy has all he wants,
don't he? But Daisy cow don't make such a terrible lot, Daisy don't.
Papa says she ought to have more eatings and 't our pasture's poor.
Mamma says Daisy's a real good cow. She don't really know what we
childern would do without her. Daisy gives us our dinners. Sometimes,
on Sundays, mamma gives us a little milk just fresh milked, before she
churns it into papa's butter. It's nicer 'an buttermilk, ain't it? And
I shall never forget what Sunday's like, with the sweet, doo-licious
milk, an' our other clo