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I am going to tell you a few of the little stories, pictures, fables, parables, allegories, I scarcely know what to call them, which I heard Story-tell Lib relate. The words are her own, but I cannot give you the sweet tones, the quaint manner, the weird, strange personality, of the little narrator.
A close friendship existed between the boy and Story-tell Lib, and we all understood the tale she told us one day when Stoopin' Jacob was one of the listeners. Diff'ent Kind o' Bundles Once there was a lot o' folks, and every single one on 'em had bundles on their backs. But they was all diff'ent, oh! jest as diff'ent as as anything, the bundles was.
Dudley, "this is Miss Polly May, the chief story-tell of the convalescent ward. And, Polly, allow me to present Master David Collins, who had a race a week or two ago, with a runaway horse, and who was foolish enough to let the horse beat." The Doctor's eyes were twinkling, and Polly let go a giggle; so the boy ventured to laugh.
One day a little neighbor, a boy with great faith not wholly misplaced in the helpfulness of Story-tell Lib's little parables, succeeded, with a child's art, in bringing the sad mother to the group of listeners. And it was that day that Lib told this new story. The Plant that Lost its Berry Once there was a plant, and it had jest one little berry. And the berry was real pretty to look at.
That was what everybody in the little mountain village called her. Her real name, as she often told me, ringing out each syllable proudly in her shrill sweet voice, was Elizabeth Rowena Marietta York. A stately name, indeed, for the little crippled, stunted, helpless creature, and I myself could never think of her by any name but the one the village people used, Story-tell Lib.
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