now it, and
nothing done."

Roberta didn't belong to any "mite society" nor the "little busy bees,"
where city children are trained to think of and help the poor, and she
didn't wear the badge of the "Society for Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals," as many children do nowadays. Indeed I don't expect she ever
heard there was such a society. But she was instrumental nevertheless in
doing a great deal of real practical good. O, how her eyes did flash when
she saw animals mistreated. She made beds for the cats and beds for the
dogs; and when any of the milkers struck the cows while they were milking
them, if she was near about, she would say, "Mamma says good milkers are
always gentle with the cows, for they won't give down their milk unless
you treat them kindly. And anybody can tell by the quantity of milk you
get whether you are good to them or not. If I was a cow I wouldn't give
down my milk if you struck me and hollered at me."

So she made the cruel milkers ashamed of themselves often. And she
practically established a foundling asylum for little motherless lambs and
calves; raised them herself on the bottle just like they were babies.

"O, you tootsey weetsy darlin'," I've heard her say to a bright-eyed,
gentle lamb, her especial delight. The little creature would run to her
and bleat by way of telling her it was hungry, and when she had fed it it
would rub its pretty head against her knee and look love at her, just as I
have seen babies look love at their mothers.

And, my! how she did fuss over the little negro children when they were
sick! It just kept her busy bringing them gourds of fresh water from the
spring and watching the well ones to see that they didn't purloin the
dainties she brought the sick. She actually learned how to sew, making
clothes for the pickaninnies.

And you just ought to have seen her when any of the fathers and mothers
whipped their children severely. She would fly down to the cabin, tear the
pickaninnies away and trot them up to the big house, and pet them until
they were willing to take another whipping to get the good things she gave
them.

"She's jes de very spi't ob her par," old Squire would say on those
occasions; "Dat's jest de way hees eyes useter flash out at Mis Betsy
when she cum 'twix' him an Mis July."

O, I wish I could make the little children who read this story see, as I
have seen it, the country place where Roberta Marsden was raised.

On either side fields of g