“But, surely, they wouldn’t treasure up such a mistake against you, seeing that you suffered with the rest,” I said. “Boss,” said the old man, rising, “how long you gwine ter lib wid niggers, an’ den hafter be tole ober an’ ober ergin de same thing? In course, dey didn’t beat me fur offis on ercount ob dat fool mistake, but jes’ lemme ax you, whar is de nigger libin’ dat gwinter vote fur enny man dat’d lay out a hundred watermilions in de spring branch, let ’em look at ’em an hour, an’ den turn dat nigger’s stummick into a green-persimmon fur a week? Whar is he, I ax?” And the old man crept feebly out to find him a cheap coffin. JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE. * * * * * _We never give, but giving, get again; There is no burden that we may not bear; Our sweetest love is always sweetest pain, And yet the recompense--the recompense is there._ * * * * * _The sweet things of life do not lie so much in sight as in the heart that sees them._ Stories of the Soil The Little Things of Life, Happening All Over the World and Caught in Ink for Trotwood’s Monthly. TIM’S EASTER. The first streaks of day were breaking. It looked to the fireman of 496 that the old engine was sticking her nose into the red dawn as she plowed ahead hauling her fast freight South on schedule time. Tim Doogan was at the throttle--an old engineer who stood at the head of the road’s list; for Tim had been in service longer than any of them, had never failed in his duty and for twenty years had never taken a day off except one--to bury his wife. He had never even asked for a promotion, and when it had been offered--the highest post of the engineer--Tim shook his head and declined. “I guess I’m used to this old route and I’d feel lost if I didn’t pass through the Little Town every few days.” They were now approaching the Little Town, and Tim had not spoken since he left the city, a hundred miles back. He was naturally quiet, but the fireman had never known him to make the run before and not say something. Something told the fireman that Tim had struck sadness somewhere, and so at intervals he fired up but said nothing to the big, begrimed man in overalls and cap who stood silently at his post, with one hand always on the throttle of his engine. “I’m goin’ to stop twenty minutes in the Little Town, Jim,” said Tim as they began to pull into the station. “Any orders?” asked Jim, surprised. “No, but it’s my orders--ever’ Easter--been doin’ it for twenty years. Company don’t like it, kin lump it,” Tim added dry. This was Jim’s first year, and he had never heard. “No. 3 may be late an’ give me the chance. If she don’t, why, we stops anyway, Jim.” “Why, I’d rather she’d be on time, so we can go on. Don’t you want to go on?” asked Jim. “Not for twenty minutes, ef I can he’p it. Fact is, we’re goin’ to stop here a little while anyway.”