I used to love to hear my mother sing to two brothers. Some call it the two little school boys.
I used to love that so much because it was such a beautiful little sad story.
I could see these little boys as they walked out, and one would ask the other if he could play ball or roll a marble stone.
And I could see him when he draws his tomahawk and hacks him across the breast.
I can even see where he carries him and digs a hole and puts him in everything. Just a perfect picture.
And I used to just revel in those stories when Mother would sing these songs.
Well, how did you see those two little boys being dressed? Do you remember?
I don't remember any special thing, only that they wore shirts like any other little boys do,
and that he took his hunting shirt and tore it to wrap his wounds, don't you know?
And I can just have a mental picture of that.
And then where he laid his Bible under his head and his tomahawk at his feet and his bow and arrow across his breast,
I have a mental picture of all that when I get the chance.