“Jiminy! I’ll have time in the morning,” he said aloud, and hurried on, not slackening his speed till he came to a sharp turn that took the road against the face of a rugged mountain. He hid his wheel and can in a tangle of rose vine and snowdrop, and stood out on the edge of the steep bluff that overhung the rushing river. There bloomed the island. Near the centre a rocky point was aflame with gorgeous poppies; and Billy could smell the fragrance of the snowy wild heliotrope,—pop-corn the children called it.,
The water would soon be low enough, he decided, though the end of the suspension foot-bridge hung very near surface. The rains had come in a sudden flood that year, delaying sport he had planned, in which the island was to play an important part.,
“Alone?”,
“Here, you poor darling, take mine! And don’t be afraid—you’ll find your mother before long.” Edith’s words were brave, but her own eyes were moist.
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Betty had a conviction, though an unspoken one, that Moses was the primary cause of Job’s infirmity. The slowest of a large family of striped fluffy turkeys to emerge from the shell, he had been assisted in his efforts by the impatient Moses. Betty felt sure that the clumsy fingers of the boy had ruined the little turkey’s eye. The accusation, however, was too dreadful to be put into words.,
Ebenezer Wopp sat at the head of the table. Beaming from behind a promising array of cups and saucers, his portly wife presented a countenance of aggressive hospitality. In height and girth Mrs. Wopp had much the advantage of her husband.,
“That’s good news. Run ahead, boy, and show us the way. Fly, fly!”,
The pianist took a long look at Nell who had been visibly affected by his playing. Misgivings that date back to Eden were leaping into life in his breast. He had been in love more times than he could count, but here was the girl after all. He began a Scherzo of his own composition. Youth gathering flowers at the open mouth of a volcano. The melody was born to live forever. He was a genius. Now Nell knew it and her soul worshipped genius. Howard Eliot was far from her thoughts as she listened to the enchanting chain of melodies that poured forth.
In the midst of these reflections, the trombone player of the orchestra came to him.
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“Does he?” May Nell stared innocently into the darkening eyes. “I should think that would make you awfully agitated.”
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“If I can’t Vilette can. Old Bob goes by himself, anyway.” He made a brave though unsuccessful effort to appear as usual.
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>“He must have gone to Clarence in the barn,” concluded Maria, setting off at a run.
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