Wall, when the letter wuz opened, we found what it meant.
Dead! dead! That bright young life, full of hope and beauty and promise, had been cut down like a worthless weed by the infamous practice of Hazin’.
Gentlemen’s sons, young men who had had every means of civilization at their command, had committed the brutality of a savage. Young men of riches, education, culture, position, they had committed this murder jest for wanton fun. They had called him out of his bed at midnight on a false errent, locked him out of his room for hours, poured a lot of icy water on him; he, shiverin’ with his almost naked limbs, had plead in vain for help.
Where wuz his Ma and Pa at this time? Asleep and dreamin’ of him, mebby.
A congestive chill had attackted the weak lungs, and in two days he wuz dead.
One of the pupils not engaged in it, in deep sympathy and pity, writ the hull thing out to the bereaved parents.
We carried ’em home and helped ’em out of the democrat—helped ’em to walk into the house, for they couldn’t walk alone. We sot him down under a picter of Harry that had fresh flowers under it—laid her on a couch covered with the woosted work she wuz a-makin’ for him, and took care on ’em as well as we could while they waited for Harry to come home.
Oh dear me! Oh dear suz!!!
I can’t tell nothin’ about that time. My pen trembles, jest as my heart duz, when I try to write about it.
I’m a-goin’ to hang up a black bumbazeen curtain between the reader and that seen for the next few days. Reader, it is best for you that I do it—you couldn’t stand it if I didn’t.