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May Nell needed no second request to “catch the racket and bring it in.” She flew downstairs, and presently up again, arriving with a breathless story. “O Billy, the circus train’s wrecked! There won’t be any circus next week! Some of the animals are all dead, and the fire burned some— Oh, I can hear them scream now, can’t you?” She put her hands over her face and shivered. “Run, Billy! You left the door open—she’ll get the dinner!” Mrs. Bennett cautioned, hurrying out herself to reckon the loss. “Oh, Billy To-morrow! You won’t have half time enough to play. You’re a regular Mexican,—always mañana!”.
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Conrad
Edith worked very hard. She called her operetta “The Triumph of Flora.” The words were her own, written hurriedly and set to familiar though classic airs. Yet many of the daintiest, most tripping melodies she wrote herself. The sorrows of humanity had winged her brain and dipped her pen in harmonies, that she might assuage them. The words were hardly out of his mouth when the sound of an approaching team was heard. Betty eyed ruefully the silk shawl she had flung on the ground. St. Elmo cast about in his mind for some plausible explanation of his recent panic. It would never do to inform the world that he had been afraid of a mere turkey. 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..
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