Oh, Bessie Bell and Mary Grey,
They were twa bonnie lasses;
They bigged a bower on yon burn side,
And theekt it over wi' rashes.
The early glory of autumn was painting the woods of Indiana--crimson, orange, purple, as though a rainbow of intensified tints had been broken into fragments, and then scattered broadcast upon the forest. But though ripe nuts hung on many a bough, the gipsyings had not yet taken place, except at home--when Minna, in her desperate attempts at making the best of things, observed, 'Now we have to make the fire ourselves, let us think it is all play, and such fun.'
But 'such fun' was hard when one or other of the inmates of the house was lying on the bed shaking with ague, and the others creeping wearily about, even on their intermediate days. They had been delu
