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"Th' world's full o' jackasses brayin' an' they never bray nowt but lies. What did tha' shut thysel' up for?" "Every one thought I was going to die," said Colin shortly. "I'm not!" And he said it with such decision Ben Weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down and up. "Tha' die!" he said with dry exultation. "Nowt o' th' sort! Tha's got too much pluck in thee.
If yo' jest occerpy yo'r eyes and ears, yo' hear mostly only a ocean roar uv singin', a brayin' uv trumpets, a clashin' uv cymbals, a beatin' uv drums, with ther soft strains uv viols, harps 'nd flutes, and not much music. Ef yo' set yo'r mind workin' ter foller ther myths outer which ther story of the opera war made, then ther tones become voices, 'nd ther music only tells er story.
The 6-month had stayed nicely in people's arms; these were crawling hastily everywhere, like crabs upset in the market, and they screamed fiercely when taken upon the lap. The mother of Thomas Jefferson Brayin Lucas showed us a framed letter from the statesman for whom her child was called.
"Th' world's full o' jackasses brayin' an' they never bray nowt but lies. What did tha' shut thysel' up for?" "Everyone thought I was going to die," said Colin shortly. "I'm not!" And he said it with such decision Ben Weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down and up. "Tha' die!" he said with dry exultation. "Nowt o' th' sort! Tha's got too much pluck in thee.
The letter reeked with gratitude, and said that offspring was man's proudest privilege; that a souvenir sixteen-to-one spoon would have been cheerfully sent, but 428 babies had been named after Mr. Brayin since January. It congratulated the swelling army of the People's Cause.
How many square pounds of baled hay do you think a jackass could eat if he stopped brayin' long enough to keep still a minute and five eighths?" A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to the top floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and out upon the roof.
No use our brayin' like starved jackasses. Do somethin'. You was a fool to ever let 'em winter." Matthews clenched his fists. "Well," he said, "they won't winter again!" David Bond was on his knees in the bed of his wagon, beneath the high board cross. Before him he held an open Bible. But he was not reading. His head was uncovered. His beard was lifted. His eyes closed in prayer.
You wouldn't expect me to pick out the cheap things for a lady plutess from Brazil, would you? So we dallies with Canaps Barbizon, Portage de la Reine, breasts of milk-fed pheasants, and such trifles as that. Bonnie says it's all good. But she can't seem to get used to the band brayin' out impetuous just as she's about to take another bite of something.
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