CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE LITTLE WHITE ROSE-BUSH.
WHEN Ike Miller brought Jobe’s paper, the Advercate, to us day before yisterday, the fust thing my eyes fell on was:
“SHERIFF’S SALE.—Isaac Vinting, plaintiff, vs. Jobe Gaskins, defendant.”
I tried to look away from it, but, all I could do, I couldent git my eyes off from them lines. I turned the paper over, but it jist seemed to me that I could see them words all over that paper.
I never had anything make me feel so queer in all my life. My head seemed to be goin round and round, and I couldent see anything but “Sheriff Sale”—“Vinting—Gaskins—Gaskins—Vinting—Sheriff Sale.”
“Sheriff Sale.” I had seen them same two words hundreds of times before, but they never looked like they did that day.
I was all alone at home, and I thought I would never live to see another livin bein—I felt so queer.
Well, I laid that paper down and went out in the yard. Arter a while I begin to feel better, though nothin seemed to look like it use to—nor dont to this day.
When I got out in the yard I could see the trees, and bushes, and fences, and the house, and the big road, and the little stream down over the bank; but they looked so queer. Though I had lived by and among them for years, they dident look like they did when I use to think they would be around me and near me when I should die. No, they now looked like somebody else’s trees and bushes and fence and road and sich.
