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Billy at work or at play was so absorbed that it was hard for him to measure time; and he had a queer notion that it was some other intelligence beside his own will that reminded him, often too late, of duties waiting. This he named Betsey; and among the children Betsey came to stand for Billy’s conscience. “I’ll wrestle with you first chance,” he challenged; “but you wouldn’t have any show, your dress is so long. Why do you have ’em so?” “Please, Mith Wopp, the latht windthorm upthet our hen-houth.”.
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In a few days the sight of his wife wrapped in a shawl the color of an unripe cucumber had a rejuvenating influence upon Ebenezer Wopp. He did not say much, being a man of few words, but his sentiments were inscribed in cramped illegible writing on a slip of paper to be handed down to posterity. And so the story went on. All the wholesome things of the country that children like had come from one and another. And each had been as happy in giving as Billy could possibly be in receiving. Job’s feathers that to Betty’s eyes had taken on the glory of ostrich plumes, drooped disconsolately, while Moses denounced in fluent language the stupidity of the fowl that had caused the unfortunate episode. He declared loudly that he would like to wring the aggressive portions of those feathered culprits. The group stood for a moment, a miniature Vesuvius erupting lava and ashes, while Moses wrung the offending liquid from Betty’s yellow drape and the magenta antimacassar. His sense of the ludicrous however overcame his wrath, “My Eye Betty!” he cried, “I near kerlapse every time I draw up my curtings on Job.” They all went off, a merry, noisy troop. And the disappearing sun was the last to say to Billy “Good-night.”.
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