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She's been hankerin' so ter larn a mite of readin' 'n' writin' since I went thar, 'n' can't git out ter come down hyar!" "Is she too feeble?" Jane sympathetically asked. "No, she hain't feeble; but she's got the craps ter look arter. Mother Owsley's right peert, but with sech a sight ter do 'tween sun-up 'n' dark holds her 'round home right tight. Her man's been crippled 'n' pohly fer a spell."
"They have forgotten me," said Westerfelt, with a laugh, as the dogs retreated behind the house, and he reached over the ramshackle gate to shake hands. "But I hain't, John," she replied, cordially. "I wasn't lookin' fer you quite so soon, though. I reckon you must 'a' rid purty peert."
"Ay, that's what Rube means." "Boyees!" said Rube, not heeding the remark, and apparently in good humour, now that he was satisfying his appetite, "what's the nassiest thing, leavin' out man-meat, any o' 'ees iver chawed?" "Woman-meat, I reckin." "'Ee chuckle-headed fool! yur needn't be so peert now, showin' yur smartness when 'tain't called for nohow."
His names is Danvers Captain Danvers; a right peert young chap, in the reg'lar army. I saw them yesterday, Evaleen and him her name's Evaleen walking, spooney-like, down by Muskingum, and I says to myself, 'By the holy artichokes, I'd like to be in the captain's military boots." "Are you sure they are engaged?" queried Arlington. "Yes, sure as coffin-nails; why? Do you know the Spring Beauty?"
Isom started into the mill now without a word, as usual. Old Gabe noticed that his feet were unsteady, and with quick remorse began to question him. "Kinder puny, hain't ye, Isom?" "Well, I hain't feelin' much peert." "Hit was mighty keerless," old Gabe said, with kindly reproach, "swimmin' the crick atter a fresh." "Hit wasn't the swimmin'," he protested, dropping weakly at the threshold.
"A rope gits rotten in the water, 'n' a tide is mighty apt to break it." Old Gabe said that "mebbe that wus so," but he had no chain to waste; he reckoned a rope was strong enough, and he started home. "Old Gabe don't seem to keer much now 'bout Isom," said the Brayton. "Folks say he tuk on so awful at fust that hit looked like he wus goin' crazy. He's gittin' downright peert again. Hello!"
"She can't be very fond o' 'im, not of Muster Raeburn, she can't," said old Patton, delivering himself as he sat leaning on his stick at his open door, while his wife and another woman or two chattered inside. "Not what I'd call lover-y. She don't want to run in harness, she don't, no sooner than, she need. She's a peert filly is Miss Boyce."
Liza Ann's got t' go an' see 'er, an' I'm goin' t' tell 'er so." As Silas went toward the house, he stopped suddenly and looked back at the wagon, which stood in the same place he had left it that rainy afternoon over a year ago. "She looked that peert with 'er red lips an' bright eyes, a askin' if th' school board was t' meet.
Besides their home games, on Saturdays the boys would wander all over the neighbourhood; sometimes to the downs, or up to the camp, where they cut their initials out in the springy turf, and watched the hawks soaring, and the "peert" bird, as Harry Winburn called the gray plover, gorgeous in his wedding feathers; and so home, racing down the Manger with many a roll among the thistles, or through Uffington Wood to watch the fox cubs playing in the green rides; sometimes to Rosy Brook, to cut long whispering reeds which grew there, to make pan-pipes of; sometimes to Moor Mills, where was a piece of old forest land, with short browsed turf and tufted brambly thickets stretching under the oaks, amongst which rumour declared that a raven, last of his race, still lingered; or to the sand-hills, in vain quest of rabbits; and bird-nesting in the season, anywhere and everywhere.
When hit comes to handlin' a right peert gal, Jeb Somers air about the porest man on Fryin' Pan, I reckon; an' Polly Ann Sturgill have got the vineg'rest tongue on Cutshin or any other crick. So the boys over on Fryin' Pan made it up to git 'em together. An' he tol' Polly Ann that Jeb was ravin' crazy 'bout her.
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