Mrs. Perkins used to brush my hair and dress me up to go to church. She was always scolding and nagging me, but she was a sorter mother. She'd fly around and act real scart if I had the croup."
"Oh, any one would do that," put in Pickles. "I guess they didn't waste no love on you at the poor-farm."
"No," returned Freckles sorrowfully. "They didn't waste none, but I guess they gave me a litile. I guess they will miss me when I am gone. A poor-farm ain't much of a home, but if it is all you have got, then it is your home."
"If it was me, I would be glad enough to clear out," said Beany emphatically.
Poor Freckles looked at him in a helpless way and sighed. "Well," he said, "I suppose it sounds queer to you fellers, but the poor-farm is my only home, so it is a sort of home, and I shall miss it. It makes you feel queer to be pulled up by the roots. I know my roots ain't so long as you fellers that has homes and mothers
