these hungry teachers eat every egg they lay. Two or three others, who
have been accustomed to rely on our good nature for their winter supply
of greens and salad, receive the same reply, and it is evident that the
new order of things is very unsatisfactory and perplexing to them.

"Please ma'am, give me some castor oil for the baby; she's awful sick;
Doctor says it's indigestion of the lungs."

She gets the castor oil, but soon comes back to say in most cheerful
tones--"Baby is dead. She died at ten o'clock, but she's better off, and
please, ma'am, give mother a black basque to wear to the funeral."

Heartless? Oh no. There was great wailing and moaning at the funeral,
and when the one carriage, with as many of the family as could crowd in
beside the poor little coffin, started for the cemetery, this same child
stood in the doorway, waving her handkerchief, and shouting tragically,
"Fare thee well, baby! Fare thee well!"

A half-grown girl came up the steps with two tiny chickens about as
large as pigeons, their legs tied together, their voices lifted up in
shrill squawks.

"Father sent you these two chickens for a Christmas present, and says
please send him a coat and pair of breeches, and a vest, too, if you
can. And mother sent you these eggs for a present, and please send her a
warm underskirt and a pair of shoes!" A modest request, surely.

Next, a great girl, barefooted, though it was a raw, cold day that made
us huddle gladly over a big fire, and with her a small boy, literally
naked so far as his bony little legs were concerned. A few fluttering