"I'm thist a little crippled boy, an' never goin' to grow An' git a great big man at all!--'cause Aunty told me so. When I was thist a baby one't I falled out of the bed An' got 'The Curv'ture of the Spine'--'at's what the Doctor said. I never had no Mother nen--far my Pa run away An' dassn't come back here no more--'cause he was drunk one day An' stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an' couldn't pay his fine! An' nen my Ma she died--an' I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'" A few titterings from the younger people in the audience marked the opening stanza, while a certain restlessness, and a changing to more attentive positions seemed the general tendency. The old Professor, in the meantime, had sunk into one of the empty chairs. The speaker went on with more gaiety: "I'm nine years old! An' you can't guess how much I weigh, I bet!-- Last birthday I weighed thirty-three!--An' I weigh thirty yet! I'm awful little far my size--I'm purt' nigh littler 'an Some babies is!--an' neighbors all calls me 'The Little Man!' An' Doc one time he laughed an' said: 'I 'spect, first thing you know, You'll have a little spike-tail coat an' travel with a show!' An' nen I laughed--till I looked round an' Aunty was a-cryin'-- Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'" Just in front of me a great broad-shouldered countryman, with a rainy smell in his cumbrous overcoat, cleared his throat vehemently, looked startled at the sound, and again settled forward, his weedy chin resting on the knuckles of his hands as they tightly clutched the seat before him. And it was like being taken into a childish confidence as the quaint speech continued: "I set--while Aunty's washin'--on my little long-leg stool, An' watch the little boys an' girls 'a-skippin' by to school; An' I peck on the winder, an' holler out an' say: 'Who wants to fight The Little Man 'at dares you all to-day?' An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' little girls peeks through, An' they all says: 'Cause you're so big, you think we're 'feared o' you!' An' nen they yell, an' shake their fist at me, like I shake mine-- They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I got 'Curv'ture of the Spine!'" "Well," whispered my friend, with rather odd irrelevance, I thought, "of course you see through the scheme of the fellows by this time, don't you?" "I see nothing," said I, most earnestly, "but a poor little wisp of a child that makes me love him so I dare not think of his dying soon, as he surely must! There; listen!" And the plaintive gaiety of the homely poem ran on: