: That Old-Time Child Roberta: Her Home-Life on the Farm by Sea Sophie Fox - Girls Juvenile fiction; Country life Juvenile fiction; United States History Civil War 1861-1865 Juvenile fiction; Plantation life Juvenile fiction; Kentucky Juvenile fiction

@FreeBooksTue 06 Jun, 2023

Posted in: #FreeBooks #FreeBooksIndia #FreeBooksApp #gg

Vote Up Vote Down

THAT OLD-TIME CHILD, ROBERTA

Her Home-Life on the Farm

SOPHIE FOX SEA

Louisville Printed by John P. Morton and Company

TO MY REVERED AND BELOVED FRIEND, Mrs. Preston Pope, I DEDICATE THIS CHILD'S STORY. IT WAS SHE WHOSE LOVE OF CHILDREN FIRST SUGGESTED IT, AND WHOSE WORDS OF KIND APPRECIATION AND ENCOURAGEMENT HAVE BEEN TO ME "AS APPLES OF GOLD IN PICTURES OF SILVER."

Roberta Marsden, or Lil Missus, as the negroes called her, for the opening of my story dates back several years before the Civil War began, lived on a country place in Kentucky. She was a beautiful child, and despite a few foibles that all flesh is heir to, such a really lovable one that she was fairly worshiped by mother, aunt and uncle, and every one of the negroes, from old Caleb, the testy and ancient coachman, to the veriest pickaninny, who thought it a great feat to catch hold with grimy fingers to the fluttering strings of the little girl's white apron when she came among them at Christmas and on other occasions to distribute sweets and more substantial tokens.

It was a great wonder that the child was not utterly spoiled. But it seemed that her nature reflected the love lavished on her as a mirror the face that looks into it.

Aunt Betsy declared she did not have one selfish bone in her whole body.

I think the reason of that was, there were so many about her looking to her for comfort in some way, that when little more than a baby in years she fell into the habit of thinking of and caring for others almost as a woman would.

Aunt Betsy was a rheumatic, and always ailing, and the child could not remember the time when her beautiful, patient mamma was not very, very sad. Although she smiled often on her little daughter, it seemed as if there were tears right behind the smiles, just like rain-drops shining through the rays of the sun. And when she crept close to her at night she could feel the long lashes sweep her cheek, and they were so often wet.

The negroes on the place, especially the older ones, would grumble out their aches and pains to the child, as if they thought she had the gift of healing. And indeed she had, in her way.

For when old Squire split his foot open with an ax, they lived so far in the country they couldn't get a physician every time it needed attention, and her kind, brave mamma undertook to dress the wound herself every morning. She would let the deft little fingers squeeze a sponge full of tepid water over the cut as many times as it was necessary, then hold the scissors and bandages, and help in other ways. And old Squire said the tender, compassionate little face "ho'ped 'im as much as Miss July did."

Free books android app tbrJar TBR JAR Read Free books online gutenberg

Login to post a comment!