But the permission given, the child became indifferent to it. He pointed to three other lads crouching against the door-step, and explained:
“They’re One, Two, and Three. My father, he says it saves trouble. Some folks laugh at us. They say it’s funny to be named that way. I was eating the dirt because I was—I was mad.”
“Indeed! At whom?”
“At everybody. I’m just mis’able. I don’t care to live no longer.”
The round, dimpled face was so exceedingly wholesome and happy, despite its transient dolefulness, that Kitty laughed and her merriment brought an answering smile to the four dusty countenances before her.
“Wull—wull—I is. My father, he’s mis’able, too. So, course, we have to be. He’s a minister man. He can’t tell stories. He just tells true ones out the Bible. Can you tell Bible stories?”
“No. I—I’m afraid I don’t know much about that book. Mercy had one, but she kept it in the drawer. She took it out on Sundays, though. She didn’t let Gaspar nor me touch it. She said we might spoil the cover. That was red. It was a reward of merit when she was a girl. It had clasps, and was very beautiful. It had pictures in it, too, about saints and dead folks; but I never read it. I couldn’t read it if I tried, you know, because I’ve never been taught.”
This was amazing to the four book-crammed small Littlejohns. One exclaimed, with superior disgust:
“Such a great big girl, and can’t read your Bible! You must be a heathen, and bow down to wood and stone.”