John Jay's trousers lay at the bottom of the pile, with a little round, puckered patch of calico on each knee.
The tears came into Mammy's eyes as she saw the boy's poor attempt to help.

"I'se afeerd he's goin' to die," she muttered in alarm.

"I sut'n'ly is.

Poah little fellow: he's mighty tryin' to a body's patience sometimes, an' he's made a mess of this mendin', for suah, but I reckon he means all right.

He's not so onthinkin' an' onthankful aftah all." She laid the spool and thimble on the window-sill, and folded her hands to rest awhile.