“I am a Epispocal.”
And seein' the boy seemed to be headed onto theoligy instead of politics, and wantin' to kinder show him off, I says,—
“Tell the gentleman who made you.”
He spoke right up prompt, as if hurryin' to get through theoligy, so's to tackle sunthin' else. He answered as exhaustively as an exhauster could at a meetin',—
“I was made out of dust, and breathed into. I am made out of God and dirt.”
Oh, how deep, how deep that child is! I never had heard him say that before. But how true it wuz! The divine and the human, linked so close together from birth till death. No philosipher that ever philosiphized could go deeper or higher.
I see the President looked impressed. But the boy branched off quick, for he seemed fairly burstin' with questions.
“Say, what is this house called the White House for? Is it because it is to help white folks, and not help the black ones, and Injins?”
I declare, I almost thought the boy had heard sunthin' about the elections in the South, and the Congressional vote for cuttin' down the money for the Indian schools. Legislative action to perpetuate the ignorance and brutality of a race.
The President said dreamily, “No, it wasn't for that.”