Story-Tell Lib | Page 9

it right off. He'd been follerin'
that cryin' so fur and so long that he'd got into a diff'ent section o'
country, and he'd got a diff'ent view, oh! a terr'ble diff'ent view, and he
never went back.

Diff'ent Kind o' Bundles
VI
Everybody in Greenhills knew "Stoopin' Jacob," the little humpbacked
boy who lived at the north end of the village. From babyhood he had
suffered from a grievous deformity which rounded his little shoulders
and bowed the frail form. It was characteristic of the kindly folk of the
neighborhood, that, instead of calling the boy Hump-backed or
Crooked-backed Jacob, they gave him the name of Stoopin' Jacob, as if
the bowed and bent posture was voluntary, and not enforced.

A lovely soul dwelt in that crooked, pain-racked body, and looked out
of the gentle brown eyes shining in the pale, thin little face. Every one
loved the boy, most of all the dogs, cats, horses, cows of the little farms,
the birds and animals of forest and brookside. He knew them all, and
they knew, loved, and trusted him. The tinier creatures, such as
butterflies, bees, ants, beetles, even caterpillars, downy or smooth, were
his friends, or seemed so. He knew them, watched them, studied their
habits, and was the little naturalist of Greenhills village, consulted by
all, even by older and wiser people.
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. And these folks all b'longed to one person,
that they called the Head Man. They was his folks, and nobody else's,
and he had the whole say, and could do anything he wanted to. But he
was real nice, and always done jest the best thing,--yes, sir, the bestest
thing, whatever folks might say against it.
Well, I was tellin' ye about how these folks had diff'ent kind o' bundles
on their backs. 'Twas this way. One on 'em was a man that had a real
hefty bundle on his back, that he'd put on there hisself,--not all to onct,
but a mite to time, for years 'n' years. 'Twas a real cur'us bundle, made
up out o' little things in the road that'd got in his way, or hurt him, or
put him back. Some on 'em was jest little stones that had hurt his feet,
and some was little stingin' weeds that smarted him as he went by 'em,
and some was jest mites o' dirt somebody'd throwed at him, not meanin'
no great o' harm. He'd picked 'em all up, every bit o' worryin', prickin',
hurtin' little thing, and he'd piled 'em up on his back till he had a big
bundle that he allers carried about and never forgot for a minute.
He was f'rever lookin' out for sech troublin' things, too, and he'd see
'em way ahead on him in his road, and sometimes he'd think he see 'em

when there wa'n't any there't all. And, 'stead o' lettin' 'em lay where they
was, and goin' right ahead and forgettin' 'em, he'd pick every single one
on 'em up and pile 'em on that bundle, and carry 'em wherever he went.
And he was allers talkin' about 'em to folks, p'intin' out that little stone
that he'd stubbed his toe on, and this pesky weed that stung him, and
t'other little mite o' mud he'd conceited somebody'd throwed at him. He
fretted and scolded and complained 'bout 'em, and made out that
nobody never had so many tryin' things gettin' in his way as he had. He
never took into 'count, ye see, that he'd picked 'em up hisself and piled
'em on his own back. If he'd jest let 'em lay, and gone along, he'd 'a'
forgot 'em all, I guess, after a spell.
Then there was another man with a bundle, a cur'us one too, for 't was
all made out o' money, dreadful heavy and cold and hard to carry.
Every speck o' money he could scrape together he'd put in that bundle,
till he couldn't scursely heft it, 'twas that big and weighed so much. He
had plenty o' chances to make it lighter, for there was folks all along
the road that needed it bad,--little child'en that hadn't no clo'es nor no
victuals, and sick folks and old folks, every one on 'em needin' money
dreadful bad. But the man never gin 'em a mite. He kep' it all on his
back, a-hurtin' and weighin' him down.
Then ag'in there