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Mrs. Wopp was an incurable optimist, although the citadel of her optimism was being assailed. Turning her wrathful gaze from Moses, her eye lighted on the soiled pink hat and antimacassar still worn by Job. She burst into a hearty laugh and turned to Betty. “Did you see the fine bin of carrots, Mar?” inquired Betty. “Dad an’ Mosey don’t look orful happy,” she laughed. “Smile at me, Mosey.”.
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Conrad
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. Yet the impression of the night had been deep enough to wake him before the sun rose. He dressed quickly, astonished the chickens with an early breakfast; put fresh sand in the coop; climbed the windmill tower to oil the bearings of the big wheel; and put the lawn mower in order, but remembered in time that to use it would wake the sleepers. “Every tub must stan’ on its own bottom,” commented Mrs. Wopp. But even as she spoke, an unmistakable expression of gratified pride spread over her large motherly countenance. Although the temptation to reckless haste was great, Betty resisted it. It was not long, however, before a pile of shining blue willow-ware was restored to its accustomed place on the oil-cloth-covered pantry shelves, and Betty, seizing her sunbonnet, hurried out of doors..
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