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St. Elmo’s face brightened with intelligence. He broke into the story to give a graphic account of how a little yellow chicken of his sister’s had got “dwownded” in the pig-trough. “Mother,” he resumed, “I know I must freeze to some sort of business, and that mighty soon, too. But a preacher—why, he can’t be like anybody. He never has any fun.” “O, that chestnut!” scornfully ejaculated Isobel..

The child had been content to extract but fleeting moments of sweetness from the confection and as the weeks passed had in the time-honored custom kept the canes shining. Thus accumulated quite a bagful of the tempting sweets. These she sold to a haughty plutocrat at school for a dime. This coin of the realm made a pleasing clatter in her wooden box; but she reflected, not without some degree of logic, that ten cents would not go very far in carrying salvation to the suffering heathen in Africa.I tried logging in using my phone number and I was supposed to get a verification code text,but didn't get it. I clicked resend a couple time, tried the "call me instead" option twice but didn't get a call either. the trouble shooting had no info on if the call me instead fails.There was Mrs. Mifsud, in the lead of the rescuing party, ran through the garden gate in time to see St. Elmo fall headlong, his feet having become entangled in the long rank grass near the fence.

“It certainly is wonderful,” agreed Nell with perfect truth. Discarded shoe-laces, rope and trunk-straps came hastily into requisition. The vociferations of Moses were so severe on his vocal chords that he found it necessary to visit the pump. When Moses, accompanied by his small attendant, returned to his unfinished task in the garden, he found Betty still at work. She was weeding the pansy bed. St. Elmo clapped his chubby hands in delight. “Do you think fun the first business of the world?”.