Wait a minute and let
me think. There was a little boy played with me and his name was
Bud--not a sure enough little boy, but one that I pretended like; and I
could hear him talk and he'd say the prettiest things. He lived up there
under that big rock and would always come when I called him, but one
time a woman come along and she heard me talkin' to him and she couldn't
see him with her sort of eyes; and she went down to the house and told
mother that I must be crazy, and after this Bud wouldn't come when I
called him. That was a long time ago--a year and a half befo' year befo'
last. We will go on now."
When they came to the log hut, Tom cried out: "Oh, here is another
play-house. Is it yours?"
"No, this is where they grind corn."
He looked in at the low door and marveled at the strangeness of the
place, and after a long silence she asked him what he was thinking about
and he replied:
"About that little boy. He must have been happy."
"Yes, till that hateful woman came along and killed him. Wasn't she
mean? I wonder if hundreds of spirits haven't been killed that way.
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