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“Not in the house; in this room, yes.” “I mix up words that way sometimes, too,” the child excused. “’Cause I love you, ’n’ I hope the edges’ll be all pink like my mornin’-glories.”.
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Conrad
Moses’ intuition regarding St. Elmo’s retreat proved to be correct, and it was a sadly dejected countenance on which he gazed when he looked into the cave. Tears, dirt, and the juice of Saskatoon berries mingled on the fair sleeping face of the child, until he seemed to be the very Cree Indian he had so often personated in his play. His long curls were tangled and matted with small twigs. His diminutive brown velvet coat displayed a large rent in the elbow through which oozed a pathetic-looking suppuration of pink and white checked shirt. “Anything else you can do better than a girl?” she jeered, good-naturedly. Several hands waved wildly and a chorus of voices eagerly broke in; through the childish babel could be heard a lisping narrative. “Well, old Tom’ll have to be cleverer than I ever saw him to pay for that.”.
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