I had an extra good-looking pair of cowhide boots, as we all agreed, which John Wells, the cobbler, had made for me.

True, I had my doubts about them, but we could afford no better.
When the chest was about full, I remember that my aunt brought something wrapped in a sheet of the _St.Lawrence Republican_ and put it into my hands.
"There are two dozen cookies an' some dried meat," said she.

"Ayes, I thought mebbe you'd like 'em--if you was hungry some time between meals.
Wait a minute." She went to her room and Uncle Peabody and I waited before we shut the hasp with a wooden peg driven into its staple.
Aunt Deel returned promptly with the Indian Book in her hands.
"There," said she, "you might as well have it--ayes!--you're old enough now.

You'll enjoy readin' it sometimes in the evenin', mebbe--ayes! Please be awful careful of it, Bart, for it was a present from my mother to me--ayes it was!" How tenderly she held and looked at the sacred heirloom so carefully stitched into its cover of faded linen.

It was her sole legacy.