"But 'tain't turned out that way altogether with me. My boys hain't got no education, nary un but Joey, and he used to slip off to school, and learnt some. They all spent their school days in the terbaccer. I used to bag Eph a many a time to quit raisin' hit, and let the chillern git some schoolin', but he wouldn't, and ef I hadn't jest spread out and nigh killed myse'f, a doin' all the work at the house myse'f, so's the girls could go to school in the falls, they'd 'a' been like the boys. "Eph, he never insisted on the girls workin' none in the terbaccer like a heap does, but pore Callie, she wuz the oldest of our chillern, and she wanted to holp her pap when the others wuz little, and she'd work in the patch in the summers, and after she quit goin' to school. And gittin' wet all over ever' mornin' after the terbaccer got up, a wormin' and a suckerin' while the dew wuz on, wuz the startin' o' the consumption that killed her--I know hit wuz. "I used to say when she come in, sengin', makin' like she wuzn't tired ner warried, so's not to pester me,--'Callie, child, I'm afeerd fer you to git wet this away,'--but she'd jest say, 'Ma, I don't reckon hit'll hurt me, and maybe ef we have a good crop this year I can save enough from hirin' to git us a new sewin'-machine!' But we never have got able to git no new machine yit, and Callie, my little Callie--" Mrs. Doggett's lips quivered and the tears streamed down her face. "Doan' grieve, Mis' Ann, honey, doan' grieve," besought old July, laying a soothing hand on Mrs. Doggett's slender shaking shoulder,--a tear of sympathy standing on each withered cheek: "de chile ain' seein' no moah hard times, nuvver no moah." Mrs. Doggett wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. "Callie wuz my best child, but my chillern are all good chillern, and," she added, a little pathetic note of defiance as to the world's opinion in her voice, "they've got pride about their clothes, and they know how to behave in comp'ny, ef they hain't got schoolin',--though some the boys is learnin' some sence they married: their wives is a teachin' 'em a little." "Well, anyway," broke in Aunt July, "dey's de mannerest boys I knows. 'Scuse me for sayin' so, Mis' Ann, 'foah you, but most dem ole 'baccer folks, dey don't teach dey young uns _nothin'_. De old uns ain't got a speck o' manners deyselves. Sometimes I passes 'em out on de road, and dey'll be drunk, reelin' and a fallin' in fence corners. Dey'll holler at me disrespectful like, 'How are you, honey? Hi da', granny!' I nuvver 'turns 'em no answer--jest looks t'other way. "But ef one yoah boys is out anywha' and don't see no moah o' me dan my coat-tail, he'll holler at hit, and speak and axe me how I comes on, and lif' his hat when he goes on, as respectful as you please; and de gals is jest de same. How is de gals gittin' along now, Mis' Ann?"