The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. '—'They can't,' says I. His fatigue was tacitly understood within the family; it was a phenomenon which everyone acknowledged as related to the trades. ” “No? But it is very simple.
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