I'm sent ter 'rest dis company
Fer 'sterbin' of de peace.
Dude and Laundress.
Now change yo' min', Mist' P'liceman, do,
An' jine us in our feas'.
Chorus (dancing).
Come cut de pigeon-wing wid us,
An' shore ez you is bawn
You'll fin' de liv'les' darkies' hour
Is jes befo' de dawn.
[PATTY'S STATION.]
BY KATHARINE B. FOOT.
It was Patty Miller's seventeenth birthday and a sweet May morning in the early fifties. She sat on the porch step beside her father, who was the doctor of the whole country-side far and near, and they looked out over the superb view of the Connecticut Valley below them. She was an only child, and her father's dear companion and friend, and as dear and familiar friends are apt to do, they sat without speaking for some time, until her father laid an affectionate hand on hers and said, "Are you happy to be home, daughter, on your birthday?"