His steaming clothes had been taken off, a dry shirt
had been given him, and he had Joe for a bedfellow.
"Hug him tight, Joey dear!" said the old woman, as she carried away the
candle. "Snug up close, and keep him warm!"
"I will!" cried Joe, as affectionate as he was roguish; and Fessenden's
never slept better than he did that night, with the tempest singing his
lullaby, and the arms of the loving negro boy about him.
In the morning he found his clothes ready to put on. They had been
carefully dried; and the old woman had got up early and taken a few
needful stitches in them.
"It's Sunday, granny," Creshy reminded her, to see what she would say.
"A'n't no use lett'n' sich holes as these 'ere go, if 't is Sunday!"
replied the old woman. "Hope I never sh'll ketch you a doin' nuffin'
wus! A'n't we told to help our neighbor's sheep out o' the ditch on the
Lord's day? An' which is mos' consequence, I'd like to know, the
neighbor's sheep, or the neighbor hisself?"
"But his clothes a'n't him," said Creshy.
"S'pose I do'no' that? But what's a sheep for, if 't a'n't for its wool
to make the clo'es? Then, to look arter the sheep that makes the clo'es,
and not look arter the clo'es arter they're made, that's a mis'ble
notion!"
"But you can mend the clothes any day.
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