ater was warmed, carried it to her
mother to wash and lave Sprigg's wounds? Little Bertha. Who, with
pretty, young hopes and fears, all in a bird-like flutter, hovered
around till the latest grown-up bedtime, wishing and wishing that she
might do something to make Sprigg open his eyes and smile--part his lips
and speak? Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young feet, so willing and
nimble, ran to the gate next morning, and every morning thereafter for
more than a week, to receive from Ben the squirrel or bird for Sprigg's
broth; then to the spring to fetch a pail of good, cool water; then to a
neighbor's house for some balsam; then somewhere else for something
else, and so on and so on throughout the livelong summer day, and all
for Sprigg? Little Bertha all the time; nobody but little Bertha!

And who was little Bertha? Well, the answer to this question can only be
given in superlatives, and even then it must still fall short of full
expression. For little Bertha, you must know, was the sweetest-tempered,
the truest-hearted, the clearest-headed, the purest-minded, the most
helpful-handed, the most willing-footed--in short, the best and the
nicest little backwoods damsel that ever wore linsey-woolsey frocks and
homemade shoes in winter, and homespun cotton frocks and nothing at all
on her feet in summer. But I see that, in this list, I had well nigh
forgotten the most popular of all superlatives--"prettiest." So
accustomed am I to squaring my estimate of beauty by the good, old
adage, "he handsome is who handsome does," or "she beautiful is who
beautiful does"--to employ a gender more appropriate to the case. Well,
then, "the prettiest," withal, as you may easily believe when I tell you
that her hair was so gold-like, her eyes so sky-like, her brow so
lily-like, her cheeks so rose-like, her lips so cherry-like, and her
form and motions so fairy-like, that Sleeping Beauty herself--of course,
I mean before she fell asleep--would have envied little Bertha, even to
the extent of wishing that she had been born in a backwoods cabin,
instead of a royal palace.

From what has just been said, it may fairly be inferred that, young as
it was, little Bertha's life was already largely made up of daily duty,
and that she found in them such real delight as to make her quite
unconscious of deserving credit for performing them. But the duty in
which she took the greatest delight was that of going every evening to
the bluegrass glades, a m