laam, like Sheba, is full of
years. Once his glossy brown coat was the pride of some Mexican's
heart, but time has added to his color also, and now he is blue. His
eyes are sunken and dim, his ears no longer stand up in true donkey
style, but droop dejectedly. He has to trot his best to keep up with
Sheba's slowest stride. About every three miles he balks, but little
Cora Belle doesn't call it balking, she says Balaam has stopped to
rest, and they sit and wait till he is ready to trot along again. That
is the kind of layout which drew up before our door that evening. Cora
Belle was driving and she wore her wonderful pink dress which hung
down in a peak behind, fully six inches longer than anywhere else. The
poor child had no shoes. The winter had tried the last pair to their
utmost endurance and the "rheumatiz" had long since got the last
dollar, so she came with her chubby little sunburned legs bare. Her
poor little scarred feet were clean, her toe-nails full of nicks almost
into the quick, broken against rocks when she had been herding her
sheep. In the back of the wagon, flat on the bottom, sat Grandma and
Grandpa, such bundles of coats and blankets I can't describe. After a
great deal of trouble we got them unloaded and into the house. Then
Mrs. Louderer entertained them while Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I prepared
supper and got a bath ready for Cora Belle. We had a T-bone steak,
mashed potatoes, hominy, hot biscuits and butter, and stewed prunes.
Their long ride had made them hungry and I know they enjoyed their
meal.

After supper Cora Belle and I washed the dishes while Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy laid out the little clothes. Cora Belle's clothes were to
be a surprise. The postmistress here also keeps a small store and has
ribbon, and when she heard of our plans from Mr. Stewart she sent up a
couple of pairs of hair-ribbon for Cora Belle. Soon Mrs. O'Shaughnessy
called us, and Cora Belle and I went into the bedroom where she was. I
wish you could have seen that child! Poor little neglected thing, she
began to cry. She said, "They ain't for me, I know they ain't. Why, it
ain't my birthday, it's Granny's." Nevertheless, she had her arms full
of them and was clutching them so tightly with her work-worn little
hands that we couldn't get them. She sobbed so deeply that Grandma
heard her and became alarmed. She hobbled to the door and pounded with
her poor twisted hands, calling all the while, "Cory, Cory Belle, what
ails you?" Sh