“After the hull caboodle on us,” as Josiah said; but at my request she called it Dolly.
Good land! I thought I never could hear her a goin’ round a talkin’ about Samantha Maggie Tirzah Ann. The idee! It would have been too much for her.
Wall, she wuz a settin’ a playin’ with Dolly, and anon sort o’ lookin’ up and talkin’ to somebody she didn’t see. Wuzn’t it queer how she would always do this, and smile confidential at ’em, and wave her little white hand to ’em sometimes, as if in greetin’ or good-bye?
Queer, but pretty in her, so I always thought.
I wish I knew who she had in her mind when she done it, or if she see anybody or hearn anybody. For once in a while she would sort o’ lift up her little smilin’ face and seem to listen—listen.
Wall, she wuz a beautiful child—and every child has its pretty ways and its dretful curius ones, its angel traits and its tuther ones. Bless their sweet hearts, wherever they be! I love the hull on ’em, and can’t help it.
Boy wuz a layin’ in his little crib, and Genieve wuz a settin’ by it a mindin’ the child. And my son and daughter, Thomas Jefferson and Maggie, wuz a settin’ near each other (that is where they would always be if they had their own way).
Thomas J. was readin’ a little to her out of a new book that come in a box of books the night before, and Maggie wuz a sewin’ on a little white dress for Boy.
“A PERFECT DAGON.”