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"Sick? Where's he sick?" Mrs. Keeler lifted the basket to the table and coming back to Maurice, put a berry-stained finger under his chin. "Stick out your tongue!" she commanded. "Billy, you fetch that lamp over here." "Jump in here, an' let's get fishin'." "Take meself," he went on, drawing his stool closer to the chairs of his young friends. "All me life have I dhrunk more er less av the cup that cheers; but I'm through now, byes, not so much either because ut's a fit av the blue divils the stuff give me but because I mane from now on to quaff the swate draft of Nature widout a bad taste in me mouth. I'm through wid whisky feriver, and ut's Harry O'Dule, siventh son av a siventh son, so declares himself this day. Ut's out into God's blissid sunlight have I come afther bein' held prisoner by a deadlier disease than measles, me byes.".

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"Ringdo, you old sweetheart!" cried the girl and, reaching for the big swamp-coon, gathered him into her arms. At the sound of the girl's voice the swamp coon had dropped the cookie, and as she swept him into her arms his slender red tongue darted forth to give the curling tress above her ear an affectionate caress. Ringdo recognized in Erie the playmate who used to romp with him and stray with him along spongy moss and clayey ditches. He sighed and turned to glance back at the cottage resting in the hardwood grove. It looked very homey, very restful to him, beneath its vines of clustering wild-grape and honeysuckle. It was home—home it must be always. And Mary loved it just as he loved it; this he knew. She was a fine woman, a great helpmate, a wonderful wife and mother. She was fair minded too. She loved Billy quite as much as she loved her own son, Anson. Billy must be more careful, more thoughtful of her comfort. He would have a heart to heart talk with his son, he told himself as he went on to the barn. "Nothing but a slice or two of tongue was sent to her," said Mr Lawrence, "that requires a knife to cut it with. Go on! Tell me what followed.".