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Balche felt no great interest; nevertheless, she paused at the sound of a boy's voice, half husky, half shrill, in an early stage of change. "What she say, Flor'nce? D'she say we could?" But there came a warning "Hush up!" from Florence, and then, in a lowered tone, the boy's voice said: "Look here; these are mighty funny-actin' cats. I think they're kind of crazy or somep'n.
There was a scurrying, and the girl was heard in furious yet hoarsely guarded vehemence: "Bring the clo'es prop! Bring the clo'es prop! We can poke that one down from the garage, anyway. Oh, my goodness, look at 'er go!" Mrs. Balche shook her head. "Naughty children!" she said, as she picked up the saucer and went to the kitchen door, which she held open for Violet to enter.
Mrs. Balche murmured. Having thus eloquently closed the gate, Florence slowly turned and moved toward the rear of the house, quickening her steps as she went, until at a run she disappeared from the scope of Mrs. Balche's gaze, cut off by the intervening foliage of Mr. Atwater's small orchard. Mrs.
The company listened with devoted attention, and Father Gleim, the protector of all the young poets, sat delighted, nodding consent, with a pleasant smile. It must all be charming it had come into existence under his fostering care. What beautiful verses to listen to! "Die Zephyre lauschen, Die Balche rauschen, Die Sonus Verbreitet ihr Licht mit Wonne!" And how charmingly the young man read them!
Florence was no longer in her beautiful relative's thoughts. Florence was idly in the thoughts, however, of Mrs. Balche, the next-door neighbour to the south. Happening to glance from a bay-window, she negligently marked how the child walked to the front gate, opened it, paused for a moment's meditation, then hurled the gate to a vigorous closure, herself remaining within its protection. "Odd!"
Balche, having few interests in life, and being of a sequestering nature, lived for Violet, and that so much devotion was not good for the latter's health.
Balche allowed him complete liberty of action. She found him asleep upon her "back porch," and placed beside him a saucer of cream, the second since his luncheon.
Kitty Silver's fixed a washtub full o' suds for us." Mrs. Balche was reminded of her own cat, and went to give it a little cream. Mrs. Balche was a retired widow, without children, and too timid to like dogs; but after a suitable interval, following the loss of her husband, she accepted from a friend the gift of a white kitten, and named it Violet. It may be said that Mrs.
At least seventy-five per cent of the deaths in all the tribes are murders for supposed sorcery.” In that they differ from the natives of Yucatan, who respect wizards because of their supposed supernatural powers. From the most remote antiquity, as we learn from the writings of the chroniclers, in all sacred ceremonies the Mayas used to make copious libations with Balché.
To-day the aborigines still use it in the celebrations of their ancient rites. Balché is a liquor made from the bark of a tree called Balché, soaked in water, mixed with honey and left to ferment. It is their beverage par excellence. The nectar drank by the God of Greek Mythology.
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