“I’d love to, Billy,” Mrs. Lancaster whispered; “I’ve never liked being grown up.”,
“Why not, I’d like to know? Isn’t this my shack? And shall I let a kid burn up?”,
That ardent daughter of Jubal sighed, not for the encroachment on her Sunday afternoon leisure hour, but because she had found out the lesson was to be on Jonah and the whale. She had always been partial to the story of the ravens feeding Elijah and to the parable of the Prodigal Son. She felt that her temperament inclined her most to stories where hospitality and mouthwatering descriptions of hunger appeased provided the dramatic interest. Well she knew that the Tishbite and the erring son who returned to the feast of fatted calf would have received full justice at her hands. As for Jonah, and the whale with the inordinate oesophagus, she would do her best.,
“Never mind, Mosey, we’ll tell Miss Gordon. She’ll give them sulphur an’ brimstone to-morrer.”
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The curtain fell on the first act and the house rocked with the noise. It is probable the audience, predetermined to be pleased, would have approved anything offered; but so far it was more beautiful than had been expected.,
Early on the following afternoon the two boys found their way into front seats in the Sunday-school hall. The address was fairly well under way when the excitement of absorbing so much information in so short a space of time told on Moses’ constitution. His nose began to bleed. With a handkerchief like a small-sized counterpane applied to the offending nasal organ the boy tiptoed squeakily out of the room.,
“I believe you are becoming a confirmed westerner,” said Howard as they slowed down to a walk. “If you once drink slough water you know you will never like any other.”,
“A dose of senner tea’ll fix that, my boy,” was Mrs. Wopp’s cheerful rejoinder.
“Oh, Mosey, she un’erstan’s everything, she’s jist wonderful.” Betty’s voice was positive.
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“Stop that there ‘Dead March of Saul,’ an’ go put on yer overalls,” ordered Mrs. Wopp, “what’s the idear of the gardenin’ tool, go git the littlest shovel to put inter the chimbly, an’ don’t let the grass grow under yer feet, neither.”
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“Won’t you dive Elmo some wed ones, too?” he pleaded.
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“You don’t want to see your mother now, do you, boy? No more do you feel like jabbering with Bess at our table. Come over to the hotel, and we’ll lunch together.”
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>“You look like some kind-faced happygo-lucky cow, chewin’ her cud,” teased Mrs. Wopp, standing at the parlor door and noting the reminiscent moving of her son’s jaws.
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