Yet they had already stopped, turned, and driven quickly to the house, hurried by the frenzy in the boy’s tones.,
“Are you hurt?” Billy spelled with the hand alphabet every boy and girl knows.,
“You’re George Rideout Smith’s kid, ain’t you?”,
One brilliant Sunday Mr. Wells paced up and down in the sunshine before his little church. An ardent lover of nature he was admiring the beautiful shades of the foliage on either hand and the gorgeous masses of golden-rod that lifted feathery heads to the sun. Presently seeing two or three vehicles approaching he retired into the church.
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Involved and intricate variations of “Holy smoke!” made the air sulphureous as a swaying piece of wire caught his shoulder and tore a large gash in his shirt.,
Jimmy tried not to look pleased, but failed. Something about May Nell attracted him, whether it was her beauty, her fearlessness, or her air of distinction he did not know. It was really her recognition of something fine in him that his cold and irascible father had almost whipped out of him.,
After these followed Jean as Rain. Wherever she passed the singers bowed their heads and sang more softly, and Frost retreated in haste.,
“I knew it!” Billy panted feverishly. “The Ha’nt!” Heedless of the dog running with his nose close to the ground, Billy rushed on. His shirt was torn, his trousers hanging by one suspender, his shoes cut and one tap turned back. Ashes whitened his hair; though at the back a dark mat was still damp from oozing blood,—the handkerchief that had bound it had been torn off by a twitching twig. His smarting eyes watered so that he could hardly see his way. Yet of all this he was unconscious. Weariness, pain, his cracked and bleeding lips,—he knew nothing of them, felt nothing.
“Oh!” interposed Betty, “but they didn’t throw a sorft stone. I don’t b’lieve in sorft answers no more.”
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“Be keerful how you shoot that checker Betty or we’re goin’ to git beat,” admonished Moses. He found himself opposed to no mean antagonists.
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“Aint it amazin’ how hungry one gits,” hoarsely remarked Mr. Wopp who had not spoken for some time owing to close application to the task in hand. “Lize, I want a piece of that punkin pie of yourn.” Here he caressed the bulging buttons on his waistcoat. “My mouth’s waterin’ fer it an’ I b’lieve I hev room.”
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An enlarged crayon portrait in a wide gilt frame of Moses as a baby in a state of round cherubic innocent nudity, had been added recently to the mural decorations and was especially well covered with cloths.
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>“I did hunt the aigs,” lied the unhappy Moses who was afraid he was going to miss something.
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