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"There ain't no carpets in the house except in Grandma Cobb's room, and that's jest straw mattin'; and there's some plain mats without no roses on 'em; and there ain't no stove 'cept in the kitchen; just old andirons like mother keeps up garret; and there ain't no stuffed furniture at all; and they was eatin' supper without no table-cloth." Amelia Powers and Mrs.
Judas, or Portrayal of the Opium Habit," gives with great frankness of confession and considerable purity of diction a record of his own experiences with the drug. One entire chapter of Mr. Cobb's book and several portions of other chapters are devoted to showing that De Quincey was wrong in some of his statements, but notwithstanding his criticism of De Quincey, Mr.
I'm purty well straightened out now, and I guess I'll go back home and kinder quiet mother's narves. You see she was rather excited and disturbed over the affair, and she wouldn't let me rest arter I gut to the house, so I sneaked off into Silus Cobb's barn, crawled into the haymow and slept a while. It was dark when I woke up, and I didn't know jest where I was.
And Cobb whistled as he put down the decanter and picked up the day's paper. It was one of Cobb's jokes this "to-morrow" of his neighbors. "What was a Northern man's to- day was always a Southern man's to-morrow," he would say. "I hope this young man of whom you speak so highly is not walking in the footsteps of this genius of a father?
How much of Miss Cobb's virtue is training and environment, Minnie, not to mention lack of temptation, and how much was born in her?" "She's a preacher's daughter," I remarked. I could understand about Mrs. Dicky, but I thought he was wrong about Miss Cobb. "Exactly," he said. "And the third kind of woman is the mistress-mother kind, and they're the salt of the earth, Minnie."
Winter and summer, when the tide flows over the quicksand, the sea seems to leave the waves behind it on the bank, and rolls its waters in smoothly with a heave, and covers the sand in silence. A lonesome and a horrid retreat, I can tell you! No boat ever ventures into this bay. No children from our fishing-village, called Cobb's Hole, ever come here to play.
Cobb's envelope, which contained four sides of bold handwriting not a long letter, but, as usual, vigorously worded. 'Dear Miss Derrick, he wrote, 'I haven't been in a hurry to reply to your last, as it seemed to me that you were in one of your touchy moods when you sent it. It wasn't my fault that I called at the house when you were away.
The teacher would call us to her chair three or four times a day, and opening the Cobb's spelling-book, point to the letters one by one and ask me to name them, drilling them into me in that way. I remember that one of the boys, older than I, Hen Meeker, on one occasion stuck on "e." "I'll bet little Johnny Burris can tell what that letter is. Come up here, Johnny."
Rebecca had now cut the bonds that bound her to the Riverboro district school, and had been for a week a full-fledged pupil at the Wareham Seminary, towards which goal she had been speeding ever since the memorable day when she rode into Riverboro on the top of Uncle Jerry Cobb's stagecoach, and told him that education was intended to be "the making of her."
It's true, nevertheless, account for it as you may, that this was Rosanna Spearman's favourite walk, except when she went once or twice to Cobb's Hole, to see the only friend she had in our neighbourhood, of whom more anon.
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