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Wullie sits down at the fire, and awa' wi' her yarn gaes the wife; but scarce had she steekit the door, and wan half-way down the close, when the bairn cocks up on its doup in the cradle, and rounds in Wullie's lug: 'Wullie Tylor, an' ye winna tell my mither when she comes back, I'se play ye a bonny spring on the bagpipes. I wat Wullie's heart was like to loup the hool for tylors, ye ken, are aye timorsome but he thinks to himsel': 'Fair fashions are still best, an' 'It's better to fleetch fules than to flyte wi' them'; so he rounds again in the bairn's lug: 'Play up, my doo, an' I'se tell naebody. Wi' that the fairy ripes amang the cradle strae, and pu's oot a pair o' pipes, sic as tylor Wullie ne'er had seen in a' his days muntit wi' ivory, and gold, and silver, and dymonts, and what not.
"Jim-jam, be jiggered!" cried Reynolds. "By ripes, I ought t' kno a jim-jam when I see one, I've met plenty. Tell yeh, I'm ez sober ez a turtle, an' I seen bin with me own naked eyes, not three yards off, jumpin' round on th' road, howlin' somthin' awful an' shakin' a bottle in the air." Peters thought it might be a bunyip. He had heard of a bunyip in Pig Creek.
One wakes up from it about the beginning of the last week in September. This is what I remember of his poem: An Unpublished Poem, by my late Latin Tutor In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.
One wakes up from it about the beginning of the last week in September. This is what I remember of his poem: An Unpublished Poem, by my late Latin Tutor. In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rances; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.
With a pair of cherry ripes as close as that, what else was there to do? "Why, Torchy!" says she, jumpin' away. "What made you dare Quick, now, here comes Marjorie. Over on the front seat! And and perhaps I shall see you again sometime." "Your eyesight'll be bad if you don't, Vee," says I. "Good-by."
"So you do know some French," I said as I snipped off poppy-heads; "you have always pretended you don't." "Oh, keep the poppies, mummy," cried April, as she saw them tumbling into her basket; "if you picks them and just leaves them, then they ripes and is good for such a many things." "Tell me about the diable" I said, "and you shall keep the poppies."
One wakes up from it about the beginning of the last week in September. This is what I remember of his poem: An Unpublished Poem, by my late Latin Tutor In candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.
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