'Lena Rivers eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 461 pages of information about 'Lena Rivers.

“Yes, I do,” said ’Lena, with a good deal of spirit.  “Olney’s geography is a description of the earth; Colburn’s arithmetic is the science of numbers:  Smith’s grammar teaches us how to speak correctly.”

“Why don’t you do it then,” asked her uncle.

“Do what?” said ’Lena, and her uncle continued, “Why don’t you make some use of your boasted knowledge of grammar?  Why, my Anna has never seen the inside of a grammar, as I know of, but she don’t talk like you do.”

“Don’t what, sir?” said ’Lena,

“Don’t talk like you do,” repeated her uncle, while ’Lena’s eyes fairly danced with mischief as she asked, “if that were good grammar.”

Mr. Livingstone colored, thinking it just possible that he himself might sometimes be guilty of the same things for which he had so harshly chided ’Lena, of whom from this time he began to think more favorably.  It could hardly be said that he treated her with any more attention, and still there was a difference which she felt, and which made her very happy.



At last the packing-up process came to an end, everything too poor to sell, and too good to give away, had found a place—­some here, some there, and some in John’s trunk, among his ruffled bosoms, collars, dickeys, and so forth.  Miss Nancy, who stood by until the last, was made the receiver of sundry cracked teacups, noseless pitchers, and iron spoons, which could not be disposed of elsewhere.

And now every box and trunk was ready.  Farmer Truesdale’s red wagon stood at the door, waiting to convey them to the depot, and nothing remained for Grandma Nichols, but to bid adieu to the old spot, endeared to her by so many associations.  Again and again she went from room to room, weeping always, and lingering longest in the one where her children were born, and where her husband and daughter had died.  In the corner stood the old low-post bedstead, the first she had ever owned, and now how vividly she recalled the time long years before, when she, a happy maiden, ordered that bedstead, blushing deeply at the sly allusion which the cabinet maker made to her approaching marriage. He, too, was with her, strong and healthy.  Now, he was gone from her side forever. His couch was a narrow coffin, and the old bedstead stood there, naked—­empty.  Seating herself upon it, the poor old lady rocked to and fro, moaning in her grief, and wishing that she were not going to Kentucky, or that it were possible now to remain at her mountain home.  Summoning all her courage, she gave one glance at the familiar objects around her, at the flowers she had planted, and then taking ’Lena’s hand, went down to the gate, where her son waited.

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'Lena Rivers from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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