open his mouth. No threat of a dark closet ever frightened a free child
so much as the threat of being sold to a Southern plantation terrifies
the slave-child of Kentucky.

Lewis walked slowly toward the kitchen, to see Aunt Sally. It was to her
he used to go with all his troubles, and sometimes she scolded, and
sometimes she listened. She was very busy dressing the vegetables for
dinner, and she looked cross; so the little fellow crept into the
chimney corner and said nothing; but he thought all the more, and as he
thought, the sad tears rolled down his tawny cheeks.

"What is the matter now, little baby?" was Aunt Sally's tender inquiry.

Lewis commenced his pitiful tale; but as soon as Aunt Sally heard that
it was about learning to read, she shut him up with "Good enough for
you! What do you want of a book? Readin' isn't for the likes of you; and
the less you know of it the better."

This was poor sympathy, and the little fellow, with a half-spiteful
feeling, scrambled upon a bench near by, and tumbled out of the window.
He alighted on an ash-heap, not a very nice place to be sure, but it was
a retired corner, and he often hid away there when he felt sad and
wanted to be alone. Here he sat down, and leaning his head against the
side of the house, he groaned out, "My mother, O my mother! If you ain't
dead, why don't you come to me?"

By degrees he calmed down, and half asleep there in the sunshine, he
dreamed of the home that he once had. His mother was a noble woman, so
he thought. Nobody else ever looked so kindly into his face; he was sure
nobody else ever loved him as she did, and he remembered when she was