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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.” “Doubtless it is incorporated in the language of some foreign people,” conceded Mrs. Mifsud, languidly. “Shame on you Moses, rampagin’ an’ bellerin’ there like a gang of coyotes,” remonstrated his mother..
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“Ay, ay, sir,” came this time from two boys who had charge of some logs lashed together and crossed and recrossed by a hash-like lot of refuse lumber, and moored with a dog chain. Billy hid his wheel in the same tangle of rose vine, now all pink and fragrant with bloom, that had sheltered it that earlier Spring afternoon,—was it years ago? It seemed so. As he crept out of the brush and turned to the steep tangled mountain, he saw the haunted house, with the bare space in front. There were the two brothers fighting fiercely! It was a proud and happy family that returned to the Wopp homestead late that evening. The air being chilly, a fire was lighted in the dining-room and around this inspiring centre there was much discussion of the days doings. The unparalleled sagacity of Moses was the jubilant theme running in the minds of his parents and sister. Moses bore his honors modestly. “Orl right Betty, I’ll do it, but ef it is a poor job don’t blame me,” returned Moses as he advanced with the scissors..
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