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“Won’t you sing something else, Mrs. Wopp.” Nell was growing uncomfortable under Betty’s reference to the unburnished state of her cloud. “All right Lize, I’ll jist make a note of that.” “’Cause I love you, ’n’ I hope the edges’ll be all pink like my mornin’-glories.”.

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“They smell like the sunbeams was sprinklin’ them with scent,” she declared as she and Moses brought the last basketful into the house. Mrs. Wopp’s nightgown of ample proportions was left out a little longer being still somewhat damp. “I’m tho thorry, I wanted to hear more about the fairieth.” Lila Williams would have braved the elements to listen to more of Betty’s original stories. In a cage of wire netting bearing the legend, “The Roc—The Egg,” the uncomfortable gander swayed and craned his neck; and all but his voice was satisfactory. In the bottom of the cage a whitewashed stone the size of a small pumpkin did duty as the egg. “Golly! Wish’t I had time to stay an’ watch. But I won’t, Betsey; I’ll go right now.”.