more'n half reckon, though, that the Higginses appreciated what Bill had
done for 'em. I never heerd uv their givin' him anythink more'n a basket
uv greenin' apples, and Bill wrote a piece 'bout the apples nex' day.

But Bill wuz at his best when he wrote things about the children,--about
the little ones that died, I mean. Seemed like Bill had a way of his own
of sayin' things that wuz beautiful 'nd tender; he said he loved the
children because they wuz innocent, and I reckon--yes, I know he did, for
the pomes he writ about 'em showed he did.

When our little Alice died I started out for Mr. Miller's; he wuz the
undertaker. The night wuz powerful dark, 'nd it wuz all the darker to me,
because seemed like all the light hed gone out in my life. Down near the
bridge I met Bill; he weaved round in the road, for he wuz in likker.

"Hello, Mr. Baker," sez he, "whar be you goin' this time o' night?"

"Bill," sez I, "I'm goin' on the saddest errand uv my life."

"What d' ye mean?" sez he, comin' up to me as straight as he c'u'd.

"Why, Bill," sez I, "our little girl--my little girl--Allie, you
know--she's dead."

I hoarsed up so I couldn't say much more. And Bill didn't say nothink at
all; he jest reached me his hand, and he took my hand and seemed like in
that grasp his heart spoke many words of comfort to mine. And nex' day he
had a piece in the paper about our little girl; we cut it out and put it
in the big Bible in the front room. Sometimes when we get to fussin',
Martha goes 'nd gets that bit of paper 'nd reads it to me; then us two