But sistuh loves b’o’ anyhow if he’s dood,
  Hush-a-bye O, sweetie, wock-a-bye b’o’,
  Better ’n tandy er infalid’s food—­
  Wock-a-bye, sistuh’s own b’over. 
  An’ some day when buddy drows up to a man,
  W’y sistuh an’ him ’ull ‘ist harness ol’ Fan,
  An dwive off to Heaven the fuist zhing you know,
  An’ bwing ever’ baby back what wants to doe. 
  Zhen hush-a-bye O, sweetie, wock-a-bye b’o’,
  Wock-a-bye, sistuh’s own b’over.

James Sears:  A Naughty Person

A naughty person ... walketh with a forward mouth.

He winketh with his eyes, he speaketh with his feet, he teacheth with his fingers;... he deviseth mischief continually;...

Therefore shall his calamity come suddenly; suddenly shall he be broken without remedy.—­Proverbs, vi. 12-15.

It was morning—­the cool of the morning.  The pigeons were gossiping under the barn eaves.  In the apple-tree a robin’s song thrilled at intervals, and the jays were chattering incessantly in the cherry-trees by the fence.  The dew was still on the grass that lay in the parallelogram of shade made by the Sears’ dwelling, and in the twilight of grass-land all the elf-people were whispering and tittering and scampering about in surreptitious revel.  The breeze of dawn, tired and worn out, was sinking to a fitful doze in the cottonwood foliage near by.  In the lattice of the kitchen porch two butterflies were chasing the sun flecks in and out among the branches of the climbing rose.  Even the humble burdock weeds and sunflowers lining the path that led to the gate seemed to be exalted by the breath of the morning air, and not out of harmony with the fine, high chord of ecstasy that was stirring the soul of things.  And yet in that hour, James Sears, with a green-checked gingham apron tied about his neck, stood near a rain-barrel, bobbing up and down on a churn-handle.  His back ached, and his heart was full of bitterness at the scheme of creation.  For it was Saturday morning—­his by every law, precedent, or tradition known or reported in the Court of Boyville.  But instead of inhaling the joys of the new day, James, whose Courtly name was “Jimmie,” looked for yellow granules on the dasher, and promised God if He would let him grow up that his little boy should never have to churn.

[Illustration:  His heart was full of bitterness.]

Any boy knows that it is a degrading thing to churn, and he further knows that to wear a green-checked gingham apron is odious beyond description; however, if the disgusting thing is tied under a boy’s arms, from whence it may be slipped down over the hips and the knees to the ground, by a certain familiar twist of the body, the case is not absolutely hopeless.  But Jimmy Sears’s apron strings were tied about his neck; so his despair was black and abysmal.  Once in a while Jimmy’s bosom became too heavily freighted, and he paused to sigh.  He cheered