and he would shout and sing with
the frienziedest and most zealousest of 'em.

Mother Charnick stood with her bag in her hand, and the other hand on
the puckerin' string. I don't say what she had in the bag, but I do say
this, that she had it fixed so's she could have ondone it in a secont's
time. And her eyes wuz intent on the heavens overhead. But they kep
calm and serene and cloudless, nothin' to be seen there--no sign, no
change--and Ma Charnick kep still and didn't draw the puckerin' string.

But oh, how excitement reined and grew rampant around that school-house!
Miss Pool and Joe seemin' to outdo all the rest (she always did try to),
till at last, jest as the pinter swung round to the very minute, Joe,
more than half by the side of himself, with the excitement he had been
in for a week, and bein' urged onto it by Miss Pool, as he sez to this
day, he jumped up onto the tall stump he had been a standin' by, and
stood there in his long white robe, lookin' like a spook, if anybody had
been calm enough to notice it, and he sung out in a clear voice--his
voice always did have a good honest ring to it:

Farewell my friends,
Farewell my foes;
Up to Heaven
Joe Charnick goes.

And jest as the clock struck, and they all shouted and screamed, he
waved his arms, with their two great white wings a-flutterin', and
sprung upwards, expectin' the hull world, livin' and dead, would foller
him--and go right up into the heavens.

And Trueman's wife bein' right by the stump, waved her wings and jumped
too--jest the same direction es he jumped. But she only stood on a camp
chair, and when she fell, she didn't crack no bones, it only jarred her
dretfully, and hurt her across the small of her back, to that extent
that I kep bread and milk poultices on day and night for three weeks,
and lobelia and catnip, half and half; she a-arguin' at me every single
poultice I put on that it wuzn't her way of makin' poultices, nor her
way of applyin' of 'em.

[Illustration: "FAREWELL MY FRIENDS, FAREWELL MY FOES."]

I told her I didn't know of any other way of applyin' 'em to her back,
only to put 'em on it. But she insisted to the last that I didn't apply
'em right, and I didn't crumble the bread into the milk right, and the
lobelia wuzn't picked right, nor the catnip.

Not one word did she ever speak about the end of the world--not a
word--but a-naggin' about everything else.

Wall, I healed her after a time, and glad enough wu