keepin' more'n they could eat jes' fer therselves."
"Yas," called the mother from her corner, where she had been admiringly listening; "they is a heap like that-a-way, but hit ain't our way here in th' mountains. Let th' doctah tell you suthin' now, Hoyle,--ye mount larn a heap if ye'd hark to him right smart, 'thout talkin' th' hull time youse'f."
"I has to tell him 'bouts th' ros'n ears--he said so. Thar they be." He pointed to a bunch of Indian corn. "You wrop 'em up in ther shucks, whilst ther green an' sof', and kiver 'em up in th' ashes whar hit's right hot, and then when ther rosted, eat 'em so. Now, what do you know?"
"Why, he knows a heap, son. Don't ax that-a-way."
"In my country, away across the ocean--" began David.
"Tell 'bout th' ocean, how hit look."
"In my country we don't have Indian corn nor bee trees, nor wild cat holes, but we have the ocean all around us, and we see the ships and--"
"Like that thar one whar th' boy stood whilst hit war on fire?"
"Something like, yes." Then he told about the sea and the ships and the great fishes, and was interrupted with the query:--
"Reckon you done seed that thar fish what swallered the man in th' Bible an' then th'ow'd him up agin?"
"Why no, son, you know that thar fish war dade long 'fore we-uns war born. You mustn't ax fool questions, honey."
Old Sally sat crouched by the hearth intently listening and asking as naïve questions as the child, whose pallid face grew pink and animated, and whose eyes grew larger as he strove to see with inward vision the things Thryng described. It was a happy evening for little Hoyle.
Leaning confidingly against David, he sighed with repletion of