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Still no St. Elmo. They proceeded a considerable distance down the creek. “You’d best go an’ take her hoss, Moses,” directed Mr. Wopp. Then raising his voice he called, “Go right on into the house, Mis’ Mifsud. Lize has jist gone in from the garden.” Mrs. Wopp was much too energetically engaged to enter into fuller argument. She busied herself preparing the tubs for rinsing, singing in a high tremolo, “Shall we gather at the river?”.
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Conrad
The whole garden had been fenced in as a precaution against the encroachment of predatory animals. Molly, the inquisitive black cow, or Josh and Jake, who had no proper sense of the fitness of things, would have liked nothing better than to sample Mrs. Wopp’s prize turnips and scanty crop of Indian corn, and to trample into the soft earth whatever did not suit their dainty palates. “This froth looks like soapsuds,” he complained. “How in the name of orl the aporstles did that hen git in there?” questioned Mrs. Wopp. “Never mind Mosey, yer heart don’t need fixin’ anyhow,” comforted Betty..
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