The Hickman Courier

Little Danny and His Dead Mother.

I've just been down in the parlor to see mamma. She's in a long box, with flowers on her. I wish she'd come and bathe my head—it aches so. Nobody ever makes it feel good but mamma. She knew how it hurt me, and she used to read to me out of a little book how my head would get well and not ache any more some day. I wish it was "some day" now. Nobody likes me but mamma. That's cause I've got a sick head. Mamma used to take me in her arms and cry. When I asked her what's the matter she would say, "I'm only tired, darling." I guess Aunt Agnes made her tired, for when she came to stay all day mamma would take me up in the evening on her lap and cry awful hard. I ain't had any dinner to-day. Mamma always gave me my dinner and a little teenty pudding with "D," for "Danny," on the top. I have little puddings with D's on top. I like to sit in my little chair by the fire and eat 'em. I wish mamma wouldn't stay in the long box. I guess Aunt Agnes put her there, cause she put all the flower trimmings on and shows her to everybody. There ain't no fire in the grate, but I guess I'll sit by it and make believe there is. I'll get my little dish and spoon and play I've got a pudding with D for Danny on it. But any way I want mamma so bad.—[New Orleans Picayune.