The Cook County herald. [volume] (Grand Marais, Minn.) 1893-1909, 1899-06-03
1.-The Little One Is ALI Right"


(Mary A. Benson.)
We'll bury her just as we did the
other two," were the words we heard
On nearing little cabin-boat on the
edge of the sand bar that the low
water had left in front of the village.
Bowling our heads, from necessity as
well as reverence, we entered the mar
row, low-framed door, near which was
a small, rude coffin, resting on two
broken chairs. A dark, stern-visagec
woman who was frying bacon on a
little stove in the center of the room,
looked up scowlingly at our entrance,
but said nothing. An old man, whose
long gray hair and beard framed a
face more defiant than sorrowful, AROSE
fl 2m the bed in the corner, kicked an
Old black jug to one side, and con-
fronted us.
What do you want here, anyhow"
said he. "The little un'll get along all
right. When the two others died, we
didn't have no church folks around,
nor preacher, nor funeral business. We
just dug hole an put 'em in it, an
they didn't have no $50 collins, neither.
We Ii 90 the same with this I'm, an
We don't want none O. you rich folks
around US. You wouldn't care if we
wfs starvin'; you call us river rats;
you make fun of us if we go near your
fine churches, an we don't want moth
ia Of you, nohow." The old man
stopped. and running both hands
through his shaggy hair, seemed to
listen to the doleful FLASHING of the
water on the keel of his floating house.
Very gently we assured him that our
sympathy was with all the sorrowing;
that our little village was famed for
its kindness to strangers, it's care for
the sick and the suffering, its substan-
tiai help to all who were in need.
Don't b'lieve nothin' of the sort.
retorted he, walking backward and
forward with heavy tread that rock
ed the boat to and fro. I'VE was tied
UP at Portage for six weeks, with the
children sick with the measles. and
not woman came a-nigh us the whole
endUrin' time. Folks is all alike most
ly an we'd rather they'd stay away
frcEl us. The little IN is all right,
without any of you; an as for me, l
don't b'lieve in nothin', nohow. I've
lived up'ards of thirty year on this
Old Mississippi river, have been over
71t miles of it, up an down, an never
l,f; c. e
loun an determined to haul the little
IN away, an put it in the ground,
funeral-like, you can do it, though
,'tWCu!d be just as well, 'cordin' to nv
thinking, if we was to roll it up an
drop it into the river. Your singin'
an prayin' can't hurt it, nohow. no
moren they can do it any good; cause
you see, don't you, the little un's all
right
The cloudless sunshine of the Easter
morning crept over the bluffs, touch
ing the river waves with crystal and
making of the brown sand bar a. plain
OF FURNISHED gold. Afar off, from q
cathedral tower, Easter chimes we're
joyously vibrating on the sweet spring
air. Birds were singing merrily from
the budding branches on the river
banks, and all the visible world seem
ed joining in the Easter chorus of the
Resurrection and the Life. Two or
three wagons were on the sand bar
near the cabin-boat, and with gentle
hands the tiny coffin was covered with
flowers and carried from it's water
tossed home to our "silent village" on
the hill A dozen or more "church
folks stood by the parents, as a HYMN
was sung, prayer was offered and
the wee grave was covered, then the
quaint funeral procession wound
around the hills and into the valley
again, while in the soft air of the calm
Easter morning the defiant fathers
words echoed more pleasantly than
before, "The little I'm is all right"
How DR.. Milburn Studied.
DR.. Milburn, the blind CHAPLAIN of