Produced by hekula03, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) [Illustration: Ned.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A LITTLE COLORED BOY AND OTHER STORIES [Illustration] THE METHODIST BOOK CONCERN NEW YORK CINCINNATI ------------------------------------------------------------------------ A LITTLE COLORED BOY. ---------- “YOU can’t help thinking when you listen to that boy,” said Mrs. Warner, “that the Lord must want him in heaven. He has such a heavenly voice.” “I think it more likely that God put an angel’s voice in Neddy’s throat to give us a taste of heavenly music,” said grandma, looking up from the apples she was paring. “Bosh! you women folks are so everlastingly simple and silly that you encourage the boy in his mischief;” and Farmer Warner set down the milk pail with such a thud that the milk slopped over into the sauce his wife was dishing for supper. “Now, Henry, you have ruined that dish of apple sauce,” expostulated Mrs. Warner; “and they’re the first apples of the season, too.” “Never mind,” said grandma, “we’ll find something else. Just call the boy to supper, Henry.” “Indeed I won’t call him,” he sputtered. “For the past hour I’ve been calling him to help with the chores, and I’ll call no more.” Just then, in sweet, rich tones, came in the melody— “O, there is rest, O, there is rest, Yes, there is rest for my soul.” “And your body, too,” growled Mr. Warner. “If you women had the trials I have with Ned, you would not set so much store by him.” “I won’t deny that he’s trying, Henry; but when one is weary and fretted with a long, hot day’s work, it is the most soothing thing in the world to hear the child singing in the twilight about rest for his soul. It rests me way to my toes.” [Illustration] “It would rest me a heap more if he did his work. Now, you see when I called him to help he was singing about rest, but supper being ready, he comes along without being called even.” Bare feet came pattering along the porch and a little black face peeped in the window. “Did you call me, Mis’ser Warner?” The farmer grunted and drew up to the table. “Henry called you a long time ago, Neddy; why did you not come?”