"
After some more talk, Mr. Blake went in to see Peter Sitles, the blind
broom-maker.
"I hyeard yer stick, preacher Blake," said Sitles. "That air stick o'
yourn's better'n a whole rigimint of doctors fer the blues. An' I've been
a-havin' on the blues powerful bad, Mr. Blake, these yer last few days. I
remembered what you was a-saying the last time you was here, about
trustin' of the good Lord. But I've had a purty consid'able heartache
under my jacket fer all that. Now, there's that Ben of mine," and here
Sitles pointed to a restless little fellow of nine years old, whose pants
had been patched and pieced until they had more colors than Joseph's
coat. He was barefoot, ragged, and looked hungry, as some poor children
always do. Their minds seem hungrier than their bodies. He was rocking a
baby in an old cradle. "There's Ben," continued the blind man, "he's as
peart a boy as you ever see, preacher Blake, ef I do say it as hadn't
orter say it. Bennie hain't got no clothes. I can't beg. But Ben orter be
in school." Here Peter Sitles choked a little.
"How's broom-making Peter?" said the minister.
"Well, you see, it's the machines as is a-spoiling us. The machines makes
brooms cheap, and what can a blind feller like me do agin the machines
with nothing but my fingers? 'Tain't no sort o' use to butt my head agin
the machines, when I ain't got no eyes nother.
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