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“The work I am at now Howard, requires mostly a sense of humor. Just look at this and ask yourself how I manage to keep my face straight sometimes at school.” Howard took the paper handed to him and had hardly read a line before his risibility was tickled.,“Mannel promptly hung his head and made no reply, being much too shy to attempt an answer in English, whatever his thoughts in Russian might have been.,Vina was no exception. Ball games, church collections, children’s mite societies, girls sewing, boys running errands, each and all helped with the relief work.,“Please did the lot hurt Joner when it fell?” queried a sober-minded seeker of truth.,“Moses, ef you hev finished yer supper, change yer good clothes an’ go git the cows,” directed his mother. “Betty run an’ fasten up the hens, else the coyotes’ll git them.”,“Ef you wish it, Ebenezer,” responded his spouse though still somewhat absorbed in the frustrated hopes of her relative, “jist wait till I drawr up the blinds.”,“Here, you poor darling, take mine! And don’t be afraid—you’ll find your mother before long.” Edith’s words were brave, but her own eyes were moist.,How did he know her name, she wondered, yet answered more bravely than she felt. “Yes, sir.” She thought it best to be as polite as possible. “I’m alone now, but the boys are expected every minute.” She would say “boys” even if Clarence didn’t come; it sounded more protecting.,she quoted glibly. “I know a lot more of it. Do you?”,“Yes, I s’pose we can listen to you scramble up and down the piano keys all night, but if I do anything it’s another story.”,“Dear Billy,” it read; “Shifty seen the fight. He says it was something fierce. He says you looked like a mad bull. He was hiding behind the fence. He says he bet on me; but he was glad he didn’t bet with nobody, because you whipped. Shifty’s doing some of my written work—I’m telling him how, of course. And I’m studying right smart. Say, Bill, I don’t lay no grudge. My arm’s getting on fine.,He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back—.
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