“Miss Gordon here, made me a harnsome lace yoke fer an underwaist, an’ give it to me fer my birthday,” volunteered Mrs. Wopp.,
“The fairies might git cross,” countered Betty.,
Pat Bliggin’s mind was undoubtedly wandering, so a drastic question was in order.,
On reaching the hay-loft all were seated with the least possible degree of discomfort on upturned soap-boxes and apple-boxes. Betty covered both windows with blankets and lit a lantern. She had constructed a pasteboard box with a large square opening and now set the lantern in such a way that a picture placed at the opening in the box was illuminated so that all could see it clearly. Betty showed her pictures in a well arranged order and her lively imagination supplied the connecting links in the story her lantern “slides” unfolded.
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“Ma! Mamma Bennett,” he burst out as he banged open the door; “she’s coming,—our little earthquake girl! The cutest kid,—not so big as the twins, but stylisher in the face.”,
Edith worked very hard. She called her operetta “The Triumph of Flora.” The words were her own, written hurriedly and set to familiar though classic airs. Yet many of the daintiest, most tripping melodies she wrote herself. The sorrows of humanity had winged her brain and dipped her pen in harmonies, that she might assuage them.,
Around the outside of the garden was a border of fragrant mignonette. Inside of this was another of white candytuft. This double wall encircled a splendid array of flowers. There were dwarf nasturtiums, red and yellow, a tangled mass of sweet peas clambering up a yard or two of chickenwire, bright marigolds and asters of various colors. Velvet pansies added their soft charms to the display. But most brilliant of all stood a few hollyhocks. Many of their kin had perished in a struggle against the fierce winds.,
He sat by the table in his dressing-room with angry storm-swept countenance. He had been capturing loud plaudits with his rag-time, until intoxicated with success, he swept into a tornado of music by Moskowski. The applause died away; two ladies in the front row began chatting. The enraged artist jumped from the piano-stool, and shouting “Pigs!” raced from the platform.
His words had a new ring, and his mother was wise enough to respect the young independence in them. “What brought you to this decision, Billy?”
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“We came—we came to bring these,” one ventured timidly, and lifted one end of the basket they carried between them.
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“La now! An’ why do you say that, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Wopp. “Set up straight, Moses, yer back looks like you was packin’ a sack of pertaters.”
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“He’s been pushin’ up the daisies fer thirty years, I ain’t goin’ to warble to please no tombstun.” Moses swung a ponderous foot to give emphasis to his decision.
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Halin-Chen Response,
>“Did you hev a good time in the city larst week, Mis’ Mifsud?” asked Mrs. Wopp, politely.
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