E-text prepared by David Garcia, Melissa Er-Raqabi, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team from page images generously made available by the Kentuckiana Digital Library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 14897-h.htm or 14897-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/8/9/14897/14897-h/14897-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/8/9/14897/14897-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the Kentuckiana Digital Library, Kentuckiana Digital Texts Collection. See http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?;page=simpleext THAT OLD-TIME CHILD, ROBERTA Her Home-Life on the Farm by SOPHIE FOX SEA Louisville Printed by John P. Morton and Company 1892 [Illustration: "Must I look so when I die? Boo-oo!" "I'll cross my heart, Lil Missus, 'twuz dem drefful men dat sed 'Boo-oo!'"] TO MY REVERED AND BELOVED FRIEND, Mrs. Preston Pope, I DEDICATE THIS CHILD'S STORY. IT WAS SHE WHOSE LOVE OF CHILDREN FIRST SUGGESTED IT, AND WHOSE WORDS OF KIND APPRECIATION AND ENCOURAGEMENT HAVE BEEN TO ME "AS APPLES OF GOLD IN PICTURES OF SILVER." Roberta Marsden, or Lil Missus, as the negroes called her, for the opening of my story dates back several years before the Civil War began, lived on a country place in Kentucky. She was a beautiful child, and despite a few foibles that all flesh is heir to, such a really lovable one that she was fairly worshiped by mother, aunt and uncle, and every one of the negroes, from old Caleb, the testy and ancient coachman, to the veriest pickaninny, who thought it a great feat to catch hold with grimy fingers to the fluttering strings of the little girl's white apron when she came among them at Christmas and on other occasions to distribute sweets and more substantial tokens. It was a great wonder that the child was not utterly spoiled. But it seemed that her nature reflected the love lavished on her as a mirror the face that looks into it. Aunt Betsy declared she did not have one selfish bone in her whole body. I think the reason of that was, there were so many about her looking to her for comfort in some way, that when little more than a baby in years she fell into the habit of thinking of and caring for others almost as a woman would. Aunt Betsy was a rheumatic, and always ailing, and the child could not remember the time when her beautiful, patient mamma was not very, very sad. Although she smiled often on her little daughter, it seemed as if there were tears right behind the smiles, just like rain-drops shining through the rays of the sun. And when she crept close to her at night she could feel the long lashes sweep her cheek, and they were so often wet.