United States or Poland ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"Bah," said Shorty, contemptuously; "no alligator-gar is goin' to come up into this mud-freshet. He'd ruther hunt dogs and nigger-babies further down the river. Likes 'em better. He ain't goin' to gnaw at them old Wabash sycamore legs o' yourn when he kin git a bite at them fat shoats we saw sailin' down stream awhile ago."
Again, not aimlessly, but to run through for the last time the notes of the scribble pad by his bed, he was out on his sleeping porch. His house was in order. There was nothing left but to sign up the morning's dictation, answer several telegrams, then would come lunch and the hunting in the Sycamore hills. Oh, he would do it well. The Outlaw would bear the blame.
"Here we are," said Sneak, halting in the midst of a clump of enormous sycamore trees, over whose roots a sparkling rivulet glided with a gurgling sound. "I know we're here," said Joe; "but what are you stopping here for?" "Here's where I live," replied Sneak, with a comical smile playing on his lips. "But where's your house?" asked Joe.
And down through the woods to the swimming-hole Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows, And we never cared when the water was cold, And always "ducked" the boy that told On the fellow that tied the clothes. When life went so like a dreamy rhyme, That it seems to me now that then The world was having a jollier time Than it ever will have again.
Down Sycamore Street to Eighth the horses went on a wild run. Before reaching Eighth Street, Sheriff Plummer said that it would be impossible to thwart the fast increasing throng and in order to throw them of their guard, ordered the driver to turn west off Sycamore on Eighth and drive to Central Police Station.
They were but a few yards from the forks of the road, and as they came to it she said: "Boy which way to town?" He pointed the way and she turned into it, and the band followed. They crossed the ford, climbed the steep red clay bank of the creek, and filed up the hill into the unpainted group of cabins and shanties cluttered around a well that men, in 1857, knew as Sycamore Ridge.
John's eyes were on the door, and his heart was quivering, but the messenger did not return during breakfast, and when it was over the Superior rose without waiting for him and led the way to the community room. A fire was burning in the wide grate, and the room was cheerful with reflected sun-rays, for the sun was shining in the courtyard and glistening on the frosty boughs of the sycamore.
It was a dark night, and he stopped with a start as, on descending a stile overhung by a spreading sycamore, he almost struck against a person who had just preceded him. "Who's that?" he asked quickly, stepping back a little: it was unusual to meet anyone in the fields at so late an hour. "Be that you, Measter Desmond?" "Oh, 'tis you, Dickon. What are you doing this way at such an hour?
At these words he threw the gun which had served him as crutch over his shoulder, and darted off in the direction of the river. At the extremity of the sycamore walk, the shore formed a bluff like the one upon which the chateau was built, but much more abrupt, and partly wooded.
Being infirm in his own person, and consequently unfit for opposing the violence of some desperadoes, whom he knew to be the satellites of Sycamore, he prepared a private retreat for his ward at the house of an old gentleman, the companion of his youth, whom he had imposed upon with the fiction of her being disordered in her understanding, and amused with a story of a dangerous design upon her person.
Word Of The Day