“Le’s go home,” he said, “I know where I be now an’ if you’re kind o’ mixed up yet, why I can show you the trail,” and he led away as shamefaced an old sinner as ever trod the mountains.
(Seeing the pair on friendly terms, Dixie indulged in a brief interview with a ’possum.)
“As I was a-sayin’,” comforted the child as they picked their way by the lantern’s light, “it’s powerful mizzable to be borned with ways that you can’t help; but don’t you go to takin’-on about it, for we’re bound to outgrow it—so gran’daddy says. And there’s another thing where you’re worse off than me: gran’daddy says you was borned mad at everybody all the time—that must be powerful mizzable too, but I reckon you’ll outgrow that too.”
They parted at Sumter’s door and then Grover Cleveland and Dixie sped homeward. Noiselessly the little fellow entered the house, crept into bed beside his Aunt Carliny and straightway forgot his “mizzable” inheritance.
But he had it embarrassingly recalled to his mind next morning at breakfast when Aunt Carliny said as she gave him his second helping of hominy:
“Grover Cleveland’s getting right good ’bout stayin’ in bed o’ nights; he ain’t tried to get up in a dog’s age. Of course he couldn’t get up without my catchin’ him, for I’m always sleepin’ with one eye open, but seem like he don’t try any more.”
“I reckon he’s outgrowin’ them kind of capers,” gran’daddy reached out, stroked the yellow pate and the yellow pate bent lower and lower and finally the whole boy went down under the table.
He next appeared tagging dumbly at the heels of the old gentleman as he was making his morning tour among his stock, who, when a sudden turn brought them into collision, reached behind him and brought the boy out of his obscurity.
“’Pears like you ain’t a mite peart this morning, Grover Cleveland; you got something on your mind?”
The child bored the soil with his toes: