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moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded

across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching

up towards the moon -- and the idea was, to see which pair would look best and

then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she died before she

got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the head of the

bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it.

Other times it was hid with a little curtain. The young woman in the picture

had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look

too spidery, seemed to me. ssssssssss

This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste

obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the Pres-

byterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. It was

very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen

Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was drownded:

Ode To Stephen Dowling Bots, Dec'd.

And did young Stephen sicken,

And did young Stephen die?

And did the sad hearts thicken,

And did the mourners cry?

No; such was not the fate of

Young Stephen Dowling Bots;

Though sad hearts round him thickened,

'Twas not from sickness' shots.

No whooping-cough did rack his frame,

Nor measles drear, with spots;

Not these impaired the sacred name

Of Stephen Dowling Bots.??

ssssssssss

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