“Which one is y — yours?” he asked.

“I keep this’n with the sea — an’ — here, I made this’n fer you.” He paused, and selected carefully among the pile of papers under his hand. “You reckon you kin tell what ‘tis?”

The doctor took the paper and regarded it gravely a moment, then lifted his eyebrows and made grimaces of wonderment until the three patients in the three little beds were in gales of laughter. At last he said: —

“It’s a pile of s — sausages.”

“Hit hain’t no sausages. Hit’s jest a straight, cl’ar pi’cher of a house, an’ hit’s your house, too, whar brothah David lives at. See? Thar’s