It is a perplexing diagnosis, but a few skillful questions draw out the fact that she has a bad cold, and some chamomilla is sent at a venture.  Word comes back the next day that “Sister is well:  that medicine did her all the good.”

Next comes, one after another, a perfect rush of small boys and big girls, with now and then a man or woman for variety, on various errands.  “Please ma’am, give me a settin’ of eggs.  Our old hen wants to set, and we haint got no eggs.”  The great brown eyes grow round with astonishment when we tell them that the hens are A.M.A. hens now, and not ours, and these hungry teachers eat every egg they lay.  Two or three others, who have been accustomed to rely on our good nature for their winter supply of greens and salad, receive the same reply, and it is evident that the new order of things is very unsatisfactory and perplexing to them.

“Please ma’am, give me some castor oil for the baby; she’s awful sick; Doctor says it’s indigestion of the lungs.”

She gets the castor oil, but soon comes back to say in most cheerful tones—­“Baby is dead.  She died at ten o’clock, but she’s better off, and please, ma’am, give mother a black basque to wear to the funeral.”

Heartless?  Oh no.  There was great wailing and moaning at the funeral, and when the one carriage, with as many of the family as could crowd in beside the poor little coffin, started for the cemetery, this same child stood in the doorway, waving her handkerchief, and shouting tragically, “Fare thee well, baby!  Fare thee well!”

A half-grown girl came up the steps with two tiny chickens about as large as pigeons, their legs tied together, their voices lifted up in shrill squawks.

“Father sent you these two chickens for a Christmas present, and says please send him a coat and pair of breeches, and a vest, too, if you can.  And mother sent you these eggs for a present, and please send her a warm underskirt and a pair of shoes!” A modest request, surely.

Next, a great girl, barefooted, though it was a raw, cold day that made us huddle gladly over a big fire, and with her a small boy, literally naked so far as his bony little legs were concerned.  A few fluttering rags that had once been pants depended from the remnant of what had once been a calico waist.  An old bag was pinned around his shoulders, which completed his entire outfit.  “Please ma’am, mother says she’ll send Johnny to school if you’ll give him a coat and some breeches.”  Alas, there is neither on hand, nothing for the boy except a thin cotton shirt, and a pair of thin overalls to make over, by a mother who is more accustomed to the use of a hoe than a needle, and who has seven children as ragged and miserable as poor Johnny.

A messenger rushes in without knocking.  “Come quick—­Mattie’s baby burnt!”

“Yes, I’ll come.  Wrap it in cotton and oil.”