The Grange advance. [volume] (Red Wing, Minn.) 1873-1877, 1876-10-04

ocpA AAlUy 49, WucIo ll0 lives, WndC ne
has done, and how he managed to Of
fend my ghost. Perhaps if he reads
this he will throw some light on the
Yokohama business. And I should
like to get at the bottom of the affair
with Polly, and the Liverpool docks.
The Tired Child's Entry Into Rest-A Moth
ers Story.
Daisy Farm" Correspondence Of the New York
AS we sat in the CHEEKY glow, talk
ing of the cabin, it's ''counterfeit pre-.
sentiment and the young artist who
painted it, Aunt Thusy, after pause
in the conversation, said suddenly,
''Pa, jever think little Abey might a
ben painter q
Uncle Seth did not reply, and I,
thinking that he had fallen asleep in
the genial warmth, said softly, who
was little Abey, Aunt Thusy 2
''He was our fust baby, deary an
he died when he was short O. four
year ole. But can see him jess as
plain as print this mint, with his yal.
Ter hair curlin' up tight, like dandy
lion-stems when We split 'em an wet
'em, an his eyes bluer nor any blum
bag could make 'em, an his mouth
like little cinnymun rose. I never
see baby like him; said so from
the fust, when pa put him in my arms,
50 little an pink as 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 sickly or pindlen', but he
warn't rugged, he was quiet.like an
dlffunt from other chilun. He'd set
most all day in his little chair a watch
in me do my work, an ev'ry time l
turned roun' to see if he was all right
he'd smile up to me; an l couldn' tell
ye how all-over that smile O. his'n
made me feel, kinder good, an yit
it hurt somewheres, an I'd stop my
work whatever l was adoin' an hug
him up to me minnit. An he'd say
such nice things, so old-fashioned like.
Pa used to tell him stories-he beats
all at stories, pa does, more partic lar
stories outer Scri pters-an' one time
he tells him bout Cain an Abil. Now
the baby was named Abil, hisself, an
SO he lissened just as sharp, an pa
cum to where Cain hit his brother an
killed him dead as door-nail, his lit.
tie mouth puckered, an the tears they
came a rollin' down his face, and he
says, Poor Tain = why it's Abil
that's dead,' says pa, an Cain he was
the bad 'un that killed him. But it
didn't make no diffmce, the little
creeter KEEP asayin', 'Poor Tain Abey
gone ter hebben, had good time, Poor
Tain We coulden' make up our
MINIS what that boyd be when he
grew up. Sometimes we'd make it
out he'd be bookmaker, cause he was
so set on books
"He'd take the Pilgrims Progress
an turn it over an over, jest as if he
could make it all out an he'd pick
out Robson Crusoe outer the hull pile
O. books, jest by the blue kiver. An
agin' we'd conceit he'd be a picte :
painter, for he'd spend hours DRAWN
with a piece O. chalk. An he'd make
sech cute little housens outer blocks
an spoOls, and then his pa would have
it he was goin' to be a builder; an
when he'd sail ships aroun' in the
wash tub, then there was nothin'
fort but he must be sailor, cap'n
or seech.
'But Abey he didn't grow rugged.
He looked scrawny an bleached like,
an wouldn' t run aroun' an play, nor
do anything but set still. An he was
alters sayin,' 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'd keep on sayin'
I'm tired, ma I'm tired, pa
s'I'd gin everythin' I had in this
Twin world if I could foun' airy way
to rest that baby. Sometimes I'd fix
him so nice in my arms, with his curly
head layin right on my shol'er an my
face down on his'n, an I'd say, %,
Abey, We amt tired now We air cum
futable now layin' in mas arms 2
an he'd smile up ter me an put up his
han an stroke my face, but he'd say
'Lickle tired, ma, tickle tired
''Seemed s if his pa coulden' bear
it, he was that onreconciled. God a.
mighty might fin some way o. restin'
sech little might of cosset as Abey,'
says he. 'Ye mus keep askin' him
pa says an many's the time I've
heerd him get up in the night an
whop down on his knees an say, a cry
in an a cryin,' % God, little ABBEY
haint got no rest yit; do jest stop his
bein' tired somehow
"But he got tiredef an tireder, an