Oh, how I love that man that took Jobe in and warmed him and fed him!
I love him though he is a saloonkeeper. I could throw my arms around his neck and cry on his shoulder with love for him and for his kindness toward Jobe.
Well, this mornin the world seems strange to me. Last nite arter I had gone to bed and could look up in the clear sky at the bright stars, it jist seemed to me, while I laid there in my bed beside the big road, that every star was a eye lookin down on me with pity. And, thinkin that they looked that way, I was not a bit afraid and went to sleep, and slept till daylite.
Hopin God will forgive them for makin and havin laws to put sich people as me out of home, I am
Your troubled and homeless
Betsy Gaskins.
CHAPTER XL.
“THEM ROOMS.” THE “DIRECTOR OF CHARITIES.”
THAT mornin arter I wrote you the last time—arter I had built me a fire in my stove and got my breakfast and washed up my dishes and made my bed—I sot down on a chair out there by the big road. I never felt so queer in all my life. Not a sound could be heard, except over on the hill near Jake Stiffler’s I could heer a cow a bawlin. It was awful lonesome. No one to speak to, nothin to look at, except my things piled up there beside the road.
I couldent help thinkin of poor Jobe—his beggin, and bein cold, and starvin, and sleepin in box-cars, and sich.