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“Don’t you remember the first day I went to school, he took me between his knees,—I was a little kid then,—and said, ‘Billy, if I[133] know that you ever jump on a boy first to fight him, I’ll lick you. And if another boy jumps on you first, and you don’t fight back, no matter how big he is, I’ll lick you then.’” “Yes,” Billy answered breathlessly as he leaped from the buggy; “but we’ll have to go in the way I did if you want to catch ’em sure. We can come out by the trail.” Billy laughed. “Mixed again, mamma. This is Vilette,” he drew one bashful little girl nearer the stranger, “and this is Evelyn, Echo, we call her.”.

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“Mar,” he demanded hastily, “more marshed turnips, please.” Mannel Rodd’s round face was very solemn as in two chubby fists he held out a small box containing a number of short knobby specimens. The Bennetts’ was one of the oldest places in town, and the most beautiful. It was near the heart of the growing village ambitiously calling itself a city. Level lawns protected by high hedges and shaded by many trees, spread amply around the house and back to the first terrace, where a tangle of berry vines covered trellises that shut off a lower level devoted to vegetables. Beyond this was the chickens’ domain, rock-dotted acres that sloped sharply to where Runa Creek boiled over its stony bed. Here mother hens fluttered and scolded while web-footed broods paddled in the edges of the stream. He laughed coarsely. “George Smith’s kid, all right. You’ve got the same high way with you.”.