As fer Jule and Sol, they had Their sheer!—less o’ good than bad!— Her folks let her go.—They said, “Spite o’ them she’d made her bed And must sleep in it!”—But she, ’Peared-like, didn’t sleep so free As she ust to—ner so _late_, Ner so _fine_, I’m here to state!— Sol wuz pore, of course, and she Wuzn’t ust to poverty— Ner she didn’t ’pear to jes ’Filiate with lonesomeness,— ’Cause Sol _he_ wuz off and out With his th’asher nigh about Half the time; er, season done, He’d be off mi-anderun Round the country, here and there, Swoppin’ hosses. Well, that-air Kind o’ livin’ didn’t suit Jule a bit!—and then, to boot, _She_ had now the keer o’ two Her own childern—and to do Her own work and cookin’—yes, And sometimes fer _hands_, I guess, Well as fambily of her own.— Cut her pride clean to the bone! So how _could_ the whole thing end?— She set down, one night, and penned A short note, like—’at she sewed On the childern’s blanket—blowed Out the candle—pulled the door To close after her—and, shore- Footed as a cat is, clumb In a rigg there and left home, With a man a-drivin’ who “Loved her ever fond and true,” As her note went on to say, When Sol read the thing next day. Raally didn’t ’pear to be Extry waste o’ sympathy Over Sol—pore feller!—Yit, Sake o’ them-air little bit O’ two _orphants_—as you might Call ’em _then_, by law and right,— Sol’s old friends wuz sorry, and Tried to hold him out their hand Same as allus: But he’d flinch— Tel, jes ’peared-like, inch by inch, He let _all_ holts go; and so Took to drinkin’, don’t you know,— Tel, to make a long tale short, He wuz fuller than he ort To ’a’ be’n, at work one day ’Bout his th’asher, and give way, Kindo’-like, and fell and ketched In the beltin’. ... Rid and fetched Armazindy to him.—He Begged me to.—But time ’at she Reached his side, he smiled and _tried_ To speak.—Couldn’t. So he died.... Hands all turned and left her there And went somers else—_some_where. Last, she called us back—in clear Voice as man’ll ever hear— Clear and stiddy, ’peared to me, As her old Pap’s ust to be.— Give us orders what to do ’Bout the body—he’pped us, too. So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed In Armazindy’s hands at last. More’n that, she claimed ’at she Had consent from him to be Mother to his childern—now ’Thout no parents anyhow. _Yes-sir!_ and she’s _got_ ’em, too,— Folks saw nothin’ else ’ud do— So they let her have _her way_— Like she’s doin’ yit to-day! Years now, I’ve be’n coaxin’ her— Armazindy Ballenger— To in-large her fambily Jes _one_ more by takin’ _me_— Which I’m feared she never will, Though I’m ’lectioneerin’ still. THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED