Pine Bluff daily graphic., 1899-10-03
''rhe Little One Is All Right.n
(Mary 4. Benson.

kH
 (Mary A. Beason.)
 We'll bury her just Gs we did the other tMo.2 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. BoWing ouI heads, from necessity as well as reverence, we entered the mar row, leW-framed door, near which was a small, rude coffin, resting on two broken chairs. A dark, stern-visaged woman who was frying bacon on little stove in the center of the room, looked Up seoW1ing1y at our entrance, but said nothing. An old man, whose long gray hair and beard framed face more defiant than sorrowfg1. arose from the bed in the corner, kicked an old, black jug to one side, and con- fronted us.
 What do you want here, anyhow 2e said he. "The little un'll get along all right. When the two others died, Be didn't have no church folAs around, nor preacher, nor funeral business. We just dug a hole an put 'em in it, an they didn't have no $50 eofins, neither We'll dc the same with this un, an We don't want none O you rich folks around Us. You wouldn't care if we was staryin'; you call Us river rats; you make fun of us if we go near your fine churches, an we don't want noth- in of you, nohow. ? The old man stopped, and running both hands through his shaggy hair, seemed to listen to the doleful plashing of the water on the keel of his floating house. Very gently we assured him taas osr sympatl y was with all the sorrowing; that our little village was famed for it's kindness to strangers, its care for the sick and the suffering, its substan- tial help to all who were in need.
 Don't b'lieYe nothin of the sort, ," retorted he. walking backward and forward with a heavy tread that rock ed the boat to and fro. We was tied up at Portage for six weeks, with the children sick with the measles. and not 2 woman came a-nigh Us the whole endurin' time Folks is all alike, most ly, an we'd rather they'd stay away from us. The little un is all right. without any of you; an as for me. l don't blieve in nothin', nohow I've lived p'ards of thirty year on this old Mississippi river, have been over TOO miles of it, up an down, an never bothered nobody. I s'pose if you're boun' an determined to haul the littls un away, an put it in the ground, funeral-like, you can do it, though 'twould be just as we'll, ,cordin, to my thinking, if we was to roll it up an drop 1t into the river. Your siagin' an prayin' can't hurt it, nohow. no more'n they can do it any good; cause you see. don't you, the little un's all right"
 The eloudless sunshine of the Easter morning crept over the bluffs, touch ing the river waves with crystal, and making of the brown sand bar plain of furnished gold. Afar off, from a cathedral tower, Easter chimes were l 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. pd joining in the Easter chorus of tht Resurrection and the Life. Two ol three wagons were on the sand ba, near the cabin-boat, and with gentle hands the tiny coffin was covered wltl flowers and carried from it's water tossed home to our silent village" or the hill. A dozen or more "churcl folks" stood by the parents, as hymn was sung, a prayer was offered anC the wee grave was covered, then tn quaint funeral procession weun, around the hills and into the valle, l again. VI nile in the soft air of the cain Easter morning the defiant father words echoed more pleasantly thai before. '1'he little un is all right"