"I'm not er poet only in feelin'," Hendricks replied, "but ef I was I'd know mo' erbout you than I do, fur the poet, erbove all others, understan's the feelin's uv the common man. It is his perfeck understan'in' uv the heart uv the common man that makes him er poet."
"Have you got any hope in the next world, Hendricks?" old man Blue asked.
"Promised you that you would be perfectly happy in the next world?"
"Air you perfeckly happy in this here world?"
"Do you believe that the Lord always keeps his promises?"
"Then why don't you want ter go ter the next world at once? Why don't you pray fur death?"
"Because you don't believe the Lord has made you any promise."
"Wall, I tell you whut it is, Hendricks, no sensible man hankers airter dyin'."
"He does, if the Lord has made him a promise."
"Yas, but he wants ter wait the Lord's own time."
"A good excuse," Hendricks replied. "You want to wait the Lord's own time, an' you hope that the Lord's time will be long."
"Hendricks, you kain't blame er man for wantin' to live."
"Yes, I can, if he believes that he would be better off in another world."
"Then he ain't got religion, an' don't b'l'eve what God says."
"Oh, yas, Hendricks. You know it would skeer you might'ly ef you knowed you had ter die ter-day."
"I'm not religious, but ter know that I had ter die ter-day wouldn't skeer me."
"But I know it wouldn't; so now, fur the sake uv argyment, let us say that I have got ter die ter-day."
"Yas," rejoined old Blue, "we ken say it fur argyment's sake, an' it won't skeer you, but ef it was sho' 'nuff, it would."
"We ken say it, but that won't skeer you, fur you know it ain't true."
"What, you know that you are goin' ter die ter-day?"
"By this fack," Hendricks replied. He drew a revolver, placed it against his head, and fired. He fell from the chair, dead. The men looked in horror upon the scene. A breeze through the open doorway stirred Hendricks' hair into beautiful curls.
Among the guests at a small summer hotel were a little boy and his mother. The boy's fullness of life and richness of prankish resource kept the timid, shrinking mother in a constant state of alarm; and the servants, noticing that she was afraid that her son might give offense, took pains to increase her anxiety by telling the child, in those soft but forced tones of kindness which burn worse than harshness, not to make so much noise and not to scatter bread crumbs on the steps. The proprietor's wife, an old woman whom everyone said was motherly, unconsciously took a cue from the servants, and, forgetting that her own sons and daughters were once noisy children, began to oppress the boy.
