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“Yes, sister says he’s rare, Persian or something; but I guess he’s only a plain cat. He’s a lazy thing.” “To think you let that good-fer-nothin’ Ken Judson, meet our schoolmarm,” wailed Mrs. Wopp. “Why he is the most ungodly feller in town. His folks in England send him a lot of money so’s he will keep away from them, an’ he spends it all in drinkin’ an’ gamblin’.” “Mar,” he demanded hastily, “more marshed turnips, please.”.

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“Every tub must stan’ on its own bottom,” commented Mrs. Wopp. But even as she spoke, an unmistakable expression of gratified pride spread over her large motherly countenance. “Moses!” called husband and wife, simultaneously. Mrs. Wopp’s voice spanned an interval of about a dozen semi-tones, and as it always grew in volume in direct ratio to the emergency of the duty to be imposed, the last syllable of her son’s name fell on that wretched boy’s ear like a clap of thunder. Mr. Wopp’s accents remained on nearly all occasions at the same even degree of meekness. Nature had not given him the temperament to indulge in crescendos or double fortes. “My eye!” exclaimed Clarence, mockingly shading his eyes from his sister’s radiance, “She’s got her joy-bells on, what’s the stunt?” “Well, why don’t you go along, Mrs. Lancaster? Don’t prize babies have attendants?”.