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Dudley didn't seem to mind whether I was dressed in cobweb or sheet-iron; for he directed his looks and conversation so much to Lu, that Rose came and sat on a stool before me and began to talk. "Miss Willoughby" "Yone, please." "But you are not Yone." "Well, just as you choose. You were going to say?" "Merely to ask how you liked the Islands." "Oh, well enough." "No more?" he said.

The little grandson could not imagine what his grandfather wanted with fire, but he always obeyed, so he ran quickly and brought the brand. The old man already had one, and was running for the ricefields. Yone ran after. But what was his horror to see his grandfather thrust his burning brand into the ripe dry rice, where it stood.

Lu looked at him and smiled. "Yone is exultant, because we both wanted the beads," she said. "I like amber as much as she." "Nothing near so much, Lu!" "Why didn't you have them, then?" asked Rose, quickly. "Oh, they belonged to Yone; and uncle gave me these, which I like better. Amber is warm, and smells of the earth; but this is cool and dewy, and" "Smells of heaven?" asked I, significantly.

Uncle Remus stared at the strange darkey curiously for a moment, and then he seized him by the arm. "Come yer, son, whar dey ain't no folks an' lemme drap some Jawjy 'intment in dem years er yone. You er mighty fur ways fum home, an' you wanter be a lookin' out fer yo'se'f. Fus and fo'mus, you er thumpin' de wrong watermillion. You er w'isslin' up de wrong chube.

"Look at yo' own head!" retorted Drusilla angrily. "It's mo' woolly dan what mine is. 'T ain't never been kyarded much less combed. An' who got any mo' strings roun' der hair dan you got on yone?" "How could I help it?" the other Drusilla asked. "You came and looked at me in the glass and I had to be just like you, smutty face and all. I don't think it is right.

"Oh, well den!" exclaimed the old man, "chilluns can't speck ter know all 'bout eve'ything 'fo' dey git some res'. Dem eyelids er yone wanter be propped wid straws dis minnit."

'I got a gol'-mine er my own, one w'at I make myse'f, en I speck we better go back ter mine 'fo' we bodder 'longer yone, sezee. "Den ole Brer Buzzard, he laff, he did, twel he shake, en Brer Rabbit, he sing out: "'Hol' on, Brer Buzzard! Don't flop yo' wings w'en you laff, kaze den if you duz, sump'n 'ill drap fum up yer, en my gol'-mine won't do you no good, en needer will yone do me no good.

I bought a copy of the ballad, which was about a recent double suicide: "The sorrowful ditty of Tamayone and Takejiro, composed by Tabenaka Yone of Number Fourteen of the Fourth Ward of Nippon-bashi in the South District of the City of Osaka." It had evidently been printed from a wooden block; and there were two little pictures. One showed a girl and boy sorrowing together.

Yaller gal fine; She may be yone but she oughter be mine! Hi my rinktum! Lemme git by, En see w'at she mean by de cut er dat eye! Ho my Riley! better shet dat do' De w'ite folks 'll bleeve we er t'arin up de flo'. Den it's ho my Riley! Come a siftin' up ter me! En it's hi my rinktum! Dis de way ter twis' yo' knee! Hi my rinktum! Ain't de eas' gittin' red?

"Oh, Grandfather, Grandfather!" screamed the little boy, "what are you doing?" "Quick, set fire! thrust your brand in!" said the grandfather. Yone thought his dear grandfather had lost his mind, and he began to sob; but a little Japanese boy always obeys, so though he sobbed, he thrust his torch in, and the sharp flame ran up the dry stalks, red and yellow.