1897. 



THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



117 



stripped luy tiue liartlett pear trees at 

 the back of the lot — I jist p'iuted to the 

 door an told her" — his voice again 

 wavered and up went the checkered 

 shirt sleeve — "she needn't ever come 

 here ag'iu even if she lived to be 100 

 yeai'S old. An I mind, too, I said, ' Some 

 day mcbby you'll want ter come back, 

 mebby to beg food fer yer children, but 

 mind, I am not grandfather to any of 

 your children. ' 



"An so they left, but Milly says: 'Pa, 

 dear, let me kiss mother goodby. Please, 

 please do!' An she looked so pitifully to 

 her ma — I can see it now; I couldn't 

 then — but I shut the door and left the 

 house. I went over thar 'neath that 

 sa'ssafras hedge an threw myself on the 

 ground an tho't of what I'd done, but I 

 couldn't help it. The very devil of a 

 temper wuz in me, an he would crop 

 out at times. 



"Fool that I wuz! Why can't a man 

 see when he's actin a dern fool? An 

 Milly wuz sich a good girl — sich a good 

 girl! Now, thinks I, who'll comb yer 

 ole ha'r before ye go to bed nights? 

 Who'll get you a cool drink when yer so 

 lagged out that you can't do it yerself? 

 JUilly was a good girl, sir — she wuz 

 that. One thing for sure, I tho't, I wuz 

 ashamed to go into that house ag'in an 

 face mother, fer thar's not many men 

 as is got as good a wife as I hev, an 

 that ' s shore. She wuz purty as a peach , " 

 and his eyes brightened, "when she 

 wuz Milly's age. I us'tto like to watch 

 Milly working around, fer it seemed I 

 wuz young ag'in, fer she wuz just like 

 mother, gentle an patient, an when 

 mother come in I could see what Milly 

 ■would be in years to come. 



"Poor mother! By my bein sich a 



fool she's seen lots an lots of trouble. 

 She ain't what she us't to be, but is the 

 patientest woman in the world today. I 

 don't know if Dick turned out bad. He 

 never was sich a bad chap — not like some 

 city raised boys I've seed. I don't even 

 know if he's livin or dead; jist know 

 'that Milly's a-comin, an that she don't 

 say uothin about Dick. 



"I often wonder if she's got any chil- 

 dren. I don't desarve ter know, blamed 

 ole idiot that I wuz! It would sarve me 

 right never to know or even see our lit- 

 tle Milly ag'in! 



' 'I often wonder if thar wuz a boy if 



'twould be named fer its granddad? 



' 'No, I never go to York. It's all I 

 kin do to get to Roseville. I hev been so 

 crippled up with the rheumatism in this 

 leg since it was hurt three years ago by 

 that ole black boss, that I can't git 

 about, and I do say that if it wan't fer 

 Andy I don't know what would become 

 of this yer fann. Yes, Andy goes to 

 York some times, but he says he's never 

 located Dick Plummer, though 'twould 

 be like huutin fer a needle in a hay- 

 stack fer him to try to find him in sich 

 a place as New York. ' ' 



"I can tell you all about Dick Plum- 

 mer, uncle," I said. "Dick Plummer 

 has one of the dearest, best little wives 

 in the world, and three of the sweetest 

 children that ever learned to lisp the 

 name of 'grandpa. ' " 



Uncle Ben rose as quickly as his stiff- 

 ened old legs would allow and gazed at 

 me as if I were one of the seven won- 

 ders. 



"What, stranger, you know Milly — 

 my Milly?" 



" Not stranger, father, but Dick P -.n- 

 mer. ' ' 



"Waal, waal — I'd never a" — 



"Yes, and I'm not so bad a husbind. 

 Just ask Milly. There she comes. Ycu 

 need not mind that old harness. S e? 

 Milly, Bennie, Richard and Dot!" 



Dear Milly! My little wife cai -i 

 from the summer house by the gate, i.e 

 little ones by her side, and, with a g'. d 

 cry, fell in her father's arms. The .d 

 man held her and was silent. T . • 

 came in his eyes, and I turned aw „ , 

 while Bennie said: 



"Is that grandpa? Then what they 

 cry'n for? Mamma cried while we was 

 waitin. I thought we'd be happy when 

 we got here. ' ' 



The kitchen door then opened, and 

 the chickens that picked about it flew 

 in all directions, and a bent, white cap- 

 ped figure hurried painfully down the 

 path in our direction. — Ella Edmondson 

 Church in St. Louis Post-Dispatch. 



Vague. 



Bildad — What do you think of my 

 wife? 



Ichabod — I think she's a poem; yes, 

 sir, a poem. 



Bildad — Um ! A magazine poem. I 

 can't understand her. — Manchester 

 News. 



