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THE place Billy called the Fo’castle was a tiny room in the sloping windmill tower. It was level with the second floor of the house, and a narrow, railed bridge connected it with a door in his mother’s room. Under it was the above-ground cellar, overhead the big tank. Still higher whirled the great white wings that pumped the beauty-giving water to lawn and gardens. “She’s a reglar show-lady,” defended Moses. This was hardly a strategic move from Moses, as he had just asserted they had been doing nothing. ‘The lighter pine trees overhead,’.
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Conrad
“Gee whack! That’s the hardest work of all,” Billy complimented. “Moses, you git to the barn an’ hunt the aigs, an’ min’ you look in the haystack; that ole yaller hen has been wantin’ ter set in the nigh corner of it.” “Mar,” he demanded hastily, “more marshed turnips, please.” “Sometimes yes an’ orftener no. I’d hate to leave Betty an’ the pinto.”.
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