She was clean, and good, and always helped "the poor and needy who cluster round your door," like it says in the poetry piece, and there never could have been a reason why God would want a woman to suffer herself, when she went flying on horseback even dark nights through rain or snow, to doctor other people's pain, and when she gave away things like she did--why, I've seen her take a big piece of meat from the barrel, and a sack of meal, and heaps of apples and potatoes to carry to Mandy Thomas--when she gave away food by the wagonload at a time, God couldn't have WANTED her to be hungry, and yet she WAS that very minute almost crying for food; and I prayed, oh how I did pray! and a sneaking old back-ended crayfish took my very first worm.

I just looked at the sky and said: "Well, when it's for a sick woman, can't You do any better than that ?" I suppose I shouldn't have said it, but if it had been your mother, how would you have felt?
I pinched the next worm in two, so if a crayfish took that, it wouldn't get but half.

I lay down across the roots and pulled my bonnet far over my face and tried to see to the bottom.

I read in school the other day: "And by those little rings on the water I know The fishes are merrily swimming below." There were no rings on the water, but after a while I saw some fish darting around, only they didn't seem to be hungry; for they would come right up and nibble a tiny bit at my worm, but they wouldn't swallow it.

Then one did, so I jerked with all my might, jerked so hard the fish and worm both flew off, and I had only the hook left.