"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 fer 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 fer me,
An' sometimes--when I cough so hard--her elderberry wine
Don't go so bad fer 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 afeard she'll be took down--an' 'at's what bothers
ME!--
'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would git sick an' die,
I don't know what she'd do in Heaven--till _I_ come, by an' by:--
Fer she's so ust to all my ways, an' ever'thing, you know,
An' no one there like me, to nurse an' worry over so!--
'Cause all the little childerns there's so straight an' strong
an' fine,
They's nary angel 'bout the place with 'Curv'ture of the