New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1876-11-12
A Mothers Story Of Her Tired Child.

A Mother's Story Of Her Tired Child.
As we sat in the CHEEKY glow thinking of
the cabin, its counterfeit presentment,"
and the young artist who painted it, Aunt
Thusy, after pause in the conversation,
said, suddenly: "Pa, lever think little Abbey
might ben painters"
Uncle Seth did not reply, and l, thinking
that ne had fallen asleep in the genial
warmth, said softly: "Who was little Abbey,
Aunt Thusys"
HE was our fust baby, deary; an he died
when he was short o. four year ole. But
can see him just 20 plain as print this mint,
dandylion stems when ye split 'em an wet
en-. and his eyes bluer nor any blum bag
could make 'em, an his mouth like
little cinnymun rose. never see . baby
like him; I said 30 from the fust, when pa
put him in my arms, 90 little an pink ~ he
was, an says laughin', though the water
stood in his eyes, "Take your little cub,
Thusy."
HE warn't very strong, never; he didn't
look eickly nor pindlin', but be warn't
rugged, he was quiet-like an diffunt from
other oiilun. He'd cot most all day in his
little chair watchln' me do my work, an
ev'ry time turned roun' to see if he was
oil right he'd smile up to me; an l coulden'
tell ye how all over that smile o. his made
me feel kinder good, an yit as if it hurt
somewhere, an I'd stop my work Whatever
was adoin' an hug him up to me minnit.
An he'd say such wise things, 90 old fash
toned like. Pa used to tell him stories-he
beats all at stories, pa does, more particular
tells him about Cain and Abil. Now the
baby was named Abil hissef. an go he lis
sened just - sharp, an when pa cum to
where Cain hit his brother an killed him
dead - q door nail, his little mouth puck
cred, an he says, Poor Tsinv why it's Abil
that's dead says pa, an Cain he
didn't make no diffunce, the little creetur
KEEP . sayin' Poor Tain! Abey gone ter
heoben, had good time-poor Tain We
cOuldn' mako up our minis what that boyd
be when he grew up. Sometimes we'd
make it out he'd be Q bookmaker. 'oause he
was 80 set on books. He'd take the Pill
grim's Progress an turn it over an over
jest as If he could make it all out; and he'd
pick out Robinson CrusOe' outer the hull
pile o. books, jest by the blue kiver. An,
agin, we'd concert he'd be q picter- painter,
for he'd spen' hours a-drawin' with piece
o. chalk. An he'd make such cute little
hOusens outer blocks an spools, an then
builder; an when he sail ships aroun' in
the washtub then there wuz nothin' for
but he mus be sailor-s csp'n or sech.
"But Abbey, he didn't grow rugged. He
looked scrawny an bleached like, an
wouldn't run aroun' an play, nor do any.
thing but set still. An he was alters a
ssyin', I'm tired, pa; I'm tired, ma We
might hole him in our laps, or lay him on
his trundle-bed, or set him in his stuffed
chair, it didn't make no diffunce, he KEEP
on sayin', I'm tired, ma, I'm tired, pa
GT'6 q uin ovarvfhin' hod in thi. Er,;r,
world if could foun' ary way to rest
that baby. Sometimes I'd fix him go nice
in my arms, with his curly head layin'
right on my sh0l'er and my face down on
his'n, an I'd say, oh, Abey, We amt tired
nowf Ye air cumfutable now lsyin' in
mas armsY An he'd smile up ter me an
put up his ham an stroke my face, but he'd
,ay, 'Lickle tired, ma; lickle tired
"Seemed's if his pa coulddn' bear it, he
was that onreconciled. Coda mighty might
In sum way o. restin' sech little mite Of
skin him, pa says 1; AN manys the time
I've heered him git up in the night an whop |
Town on his knees an say. cryin' and
'ryin, % God, little Abey haiut got no rest |
lit; do jest stop his bein' tired somehow
"But he got tireder an tireder. an KEEP
lwindlin' an pindlin', an at las there cum |
day when he gin up an was jest clear beat |
ut. He got outer his trundle-bed, an he |
ried to walk, but he went sozzin' one side |
n t'other, an most tumbled down, an 1
etched him up an laid him on the bed, an
allied his pa. An there we set an set an
oOked at him. an heerd him say over and
yer again, I'm 90 tired, pa; tired, MAJ
i'll our hearts was most q Dustin The
0ct0r he cum in sn' gin him suthin, an
hook his he'd an went away, an there
70 sat lookin' at him, an soppin' the
weat off his forrid, an fannin him
n tryin' to smile back again when he
,oked up so sweet; an finally he opined his
wo eyes wide an he looked right up at the
lanterin' an the tired kinder slipt off his
zee, an there cum shiny light all over it,
n he Gays right out Is clear an sweet as a
obbylink, says he, 'Aint tired, ma; amt
red, pa an then he laid his little white
neck down on his mite of han an he
lot his long eyewinkers down over his
lue eyes. an he never stirred again.
IAN Seth he whopped down on his
nees an he screeched out: No, no, God,
ot that a way! l didn't mean for ye to
st him that way An got right down
? him, an says, sobbin' an cryin', says
cant it all the time. Twas the ony way
ys ], AN God knew twas An little
hey warn't tired no more, an 1 was glad
that. But now he's had good long rest,
7 do want to see him so bad"
And the dear old woman wiped her eyes,
hich glistened in the freight with those
re tears the aged shed, while Uncle Seth
we q choking sob, and starting up,
'cuse me-" said he, "Im the beater for
orin!"-Son Francisco Call.
Bedloe's Island.
The small gray looking island which.