The star. (Reynoldsville, Pa.) 1892-1946, 1895-07-31

Wnat your namep she demanded OF
the little fellow He had removed the
old hat and stood twisting it taround in
his hands. ,. ...
''NTy names Scrap, ma'am, said the
boy, timidly.
"Nothin' else?"
"No'm."
"Well, I'll declared Come up to
the fire an sit down on that stool in
the corner. You must be plum froze
in them rags. Did l ever? They're
worse than patchwork quilt, they're
in so many pieces. How old air
you?"
"Mos' twelve"
"Twelve, an you ain't bigger than
child seven or eight No wonder
you're called Scrap. Sit right down
an eat this hot potato. He's been
half starved, most likely" she NUT
tered as she dished up the supper.
Scrap smiled to himself and went
out to get some wood for the fire.
1t was strange new world to the
little boy. He sat down and spread
his small, chilly hands before the fire,
watching the flames leap up the wide,
black chimney with fascinated eyes.
He didn't have much to say to his
new friends, but when the cat came
purring around his legs he picked itup
and stroked it softly. He was given
warm, abundant supper, and when Mrs.
Heath saw him swaying drowsily on
his stool she brought out q little
trundle bed and prepared it for him
81 don't know as 1 ought'r do it
Senb," she said hesitatingly.
"He's n human bein', Jane, an it
can't hurt Matthew il he sleeps in that
bed. We amt got no other place
nowhere.
So Scrap lay down on clean bed
with the cat curled up against his back
and the freight dancing on the walls,
aud the stiffness of the wide, dark
country spieading out all around him.
1t was such strange silence and
darkness to the child who had never
known anything but the sights and
sounds of city with its crowded, gas
lighted streets and crowded houses.
He might have been homesick if he
had not had that great blazing fire,
that delicious warmth sending him to
sleep as soon as he had eaten his sup
per.
On Sunday Mr.. Heath found Scrap
sitting on the bench in the sunshine
at the south side of the house, with the
big Bible open on his knees. Mr..
Heath had bought that Bible from a
book agent, and it was full of highly
colored prints.
''Lookin' at the pictures, Scrap?''
"I was readin' bout where Isaac's
pa took him to be crucified."
Sacrificed, amt it?" corrected Mr..
Heath, sitting down ON the bench at
his side. ''Do you mean to say that
you can read, boy?" looking at him
with something of awe.
"a little, SIR"
That was the beginning Of "a new oc.
cupation for Scrap during the winter
evenings. Mrs. Heath could not read
either, so while her husband sat Mt
one corner of the hearth feeding a
fresh pine knot to the fire occasional
ly, and she sat on the other side with
her knitting, the boy occupied his
stool between them, the Bible open on
his knees. He had to read very slow.
ly, one thin black foretinger travelling
over the page to guide his eye. Often
ne had to stumble over the hard words
or skip them altogether. But his au-
ditors didn't mind that. They were
not critical, and it was such novelty
to have some one to read to them that
they always listened gladly.
1t came very suddenly, the end to
this reading, and to some other things.
Spring had come, and one Saturday
afternoon Mr.. Heath took Scrap over
to where they were cutting the timber
and clearing the way for new railway
line Seaborn had some friends among
the laborers, and he sauntered down
the line where they were telling the
trees, speaking to first one and then
another. He had stopped to look at
the time of day, measuring the height
of the sun with his eye, when he heard
the peculiar rending, rustling sound
of tree tottering to it's fall, then
wild shouts, and shrill, piercing
scream. 1t was the scream which