especially so about washing his feet and getting undressed at night, not
yet having become reconciled in his mind to either process. He always
retires after Keats, and, now the nights are cooler, first tries to root
Keats out of his warm place, and, failing in that, doubles up and
plants his cold feet in the middle of Keats's back. The long-suffering
Keats rebels, and then follow howls, yells and a pitched battle, with
shrill cries for me from Geordie Yonts, the third boy in the bed. When I
arrive, the covers are on the floor, and the brothers fighting all over
their own bed, the other bed and boys, and the entire room, and calling
down horrible imprecations upon each other. In vain I have forbidden the
use of the shocking language,--neither threats nor punishments have
prevailed. Last night, after a particularly bad time, I called them into
my room, explained to them the full meaning of the words they were
using, and asked if either could possibly hate his brother enough to
wish to consign him to eternal torment. They made no answer, but went
off looking thoughtful. To-night when shrieks and howls announced the
usual battle, and I hurried to the scene, the Salyers were pounding each
other as mercilessly as ever, but this time, to my unspeakable relief,
they were calling out furiously, "God _help_ you!" "God _help_ you!",--a
decided change for the better, and, I thought, a most timely petition!

In their sane moments now, they talk of nothing but Cousin Emmeline's
funeral occasion and the visit home; and it is impossible for them to
decide whom they most desire to see,--whether Nervesty, or Sammy, or
Ponto, or the steers Buck and Brandy; while their longing extends also
to the other children, and to Charlie the "flea-bit" nag, Ole Suke, the
"pied" cow, Reddy the heifer, and the black sow, Julia.

_Sunday Evening._

On our way to the "church-house" this morning, I noticed that Iry wore
the long, ample homespun trousers in which he arrived. "Where are the
Sunday breeches I gave you?" I inquired.

"There they air," he said, pointing to Geordie's fat legs, which seemed
about to burst out of a pair of dark blue short trousers.

"Iry he just pestered me into trading with him," was Geordie's
explanation, "he said he were bound to have that gold ring I got out of
a prize box last week. Show it to her, Iry."

Iry put forth a small, dingy hand, adorned with a large, elaborate brass
ring.

"But you can see that wasn'