’nough cat what was a black cat, what was a ole witch, an’ she come back an’ ha’nt him an’ he growed thinner an’ thinner an’ weasler an’ weasler, tell finely he wan’t nothin’ ‘t all but a skel’ton, an’ the Bad Man won’t ’low nobody ‘t all to give his parch’ tongue no water, an’ he got to, ever after amen, be toast on a pitchfork.  An’ Oleander Magnolia Althea is the nex’,” he continued, enumerating Peruny Pearline’s offspring on his thin, well molded fingers, “she got the seven year itch; an’ Gettysburg, an’ Biddle-&-Brothers-Mercantile-Co.; he name fer the sto’ where ole Aunt Blue-Gum Tempy’s Peruny Pearline gits credit so she can pay when she fetches in her cotton in the fall; an’ Wilkes Booth Lincoln, him an’ me’s twins, we was borned the same day only I’s borned to my mama an’ he’s borned to his ’n an’ Doctor Jenkins fetched me an’ Doctor Shacklefoot fetched him.  An’ Decimus Ultimus,”—­the little boy triumphantly put his right forefinger on his left little one, thus making the tenth, “she’s the baby an’ she’s got the colic an’ cries loud ’nough to wake up Israel; Wilkes Booth Lincoln say he wish the little devil would die.  Peruny Pearline firs’ name her `Doctor Shacklefoot’ ’cause he fetches all her chillens, but the doctor he say that ain’t no name fer a girl, so he name her Decimus Ultimus.”

Miss Minerva, sober, proper, dignified, religious old maid unused to children, listened in frozen amazement and paralyzed silence.  She decided to put the child to bed at once that she might collect her thoughts, and lay some plans for the rearing of this sadly neglected, little orphaned nephew.

“William,” she said, “it is bedtime, and I know you must be sleepy after your long ride on the cars.  Would you like something to eat before I put you to bed?  I saved you some supper.”

“Naw ’m, I ain’t hongry; the Major man what I talk to on the train tuck me in the dinin’-room an’ gimme all I could hol’; I jest eat an’ eat tell they wan’t a wrinkle in me,” was the reply.  “He axed me ‘bout you, too.  Is he name’ Major Minerva?”

She opened a door in considerable confusion, and they entered a small, neat room adjoining.

“This is your own little room, William,” said she, “you see it opens into mine.  Have you a nightshirt?”

“Naw ‘m, I don’ need no night-shirt.  I jest sleeps in my unions and sometimes in my overalls.”

“Well, you may sleep in your union suit to-night,” said his scandalized relative, “and I’ll see what I can do for you to-morrow.  Can you undress yourself?”

Her small nephew wrinkled his nose, disdainfully.  “Well, I reckon so,” he scornfully made answer.  “Me an’ Wilkes Booth Lincoln been undressin’ usself ever sence we’s born.”

“I’ll come in here after a while and turn off the light.  Good-night, William.”

“Good-night, Aunt Minerva,” responded the little boy.

CHAPTER II