Spine!'"

"Well," whispered my friend, with rather odd irrelevance, I thought,
"of course you see through the scheme of the fellows by this time,
don't you?"

"I see nothing," said I, most earnestly, "but a poor little wisp of a
child that makes me love him so I dare not think of his dying soon, as
he surely must! There; listen!" And the plaintive gaiety of the homely
poem ran on:

"At evening, when the ironin's done, an' Aunty's fixed the fire,
An' filled an' lit the lamp, an' trimmed the wick an' turned it
higher,
An' fetched the wood all in far night, an' locked the kitchen door,
An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind blows in up through the
floor--
She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles an' makes the tea,
An' fries the liver an' the mush, an' cooks a egg far me;
An' sometimes--when I cough so hard--her elderberry wine
Don't go so bad far little boys with 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'"

"Look!" whispered my friend, touching me with his elbow. "Look at the
Professor!"

"Look at everybody!" said I. And the artless little voice went on
again half quaveringly:

"But Aunty's all so childish-like on my account, you see,
I'm 'most afeared she'll be took down--an' 'at's what bothers