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Updated: May 21, 2025
To be sure, there was one most memorable supper, when he read the "Bigelow Paper" he had finished that day, and enriched the meaning of his verse with the beauty of his voice. There lingers yet in my sense his very tone in giving the last line of the passage lamenting the waste of the heroic lives which in those dark hours of Johnson's time seemed to have been
A thorn in the side he had proved to the three great mill owners, Judge Bigelow, Squire Floyd, and Ralph Dewey.
His attitude suggested preoccupation with unhappy reflections, a humour from which the sound of my footsteps roused him. He looked up and caught my eye with an uncertain nod, as though he half recognised me presumably having casually noticed me at the Bigelow House the previous evening.
Patty's going to stay in Vernondale!" "Yes, indeed, perfectly gorgeous." "Just this evening; just now." "I guess I am! I'm so glad I don't know what to do!" "Oh, yes, of course she'll keep on being president." "No, they haven't decided yet, but I want them to take the Bigelow house." "Yes; wouldn't it be fine!" "Oh, it isn't very late." "Well, come over early to-morrow morning, then." "Good-by."
Littlejohn," he continued, warming, "that you behold in me a young man in the prime of health actually on the point of wasting visibly away to a shadow of my former hardy self? It's a fact: I am. For the past two days I've had nothing to eat except railway sandwiches and coffee and the kind of fodder they pitchfork you at the Bigelow House.
And there's that trifle due when you went away to Jefferson Bigelow the butcher, he keeps a lookin in and giving me the startles, and saying how Squire Benson lives at the corner. Now as you love your poor wife and children come home, and let politiks alone, and provide for your children like a good christian and an honest man, which I have heard it said a politishon cant be.
"What is it, father?" asked Lily. "Miss Bigelow," he replied laconically. "On a Sunday. Oh, it's too bad!" "It can't be helped," the Canon said. "Excuse me, Dale, I have to go out. But stay I shall be back in half an hour." And he went out into the hall, took his coat and hat and left the house. Miss Bigelow was his cross.
Zebedee Marvyn was quietly sitting in the front summer parlor, listening to the story of two of his brother church-members, between whom some difficulty had arisen in the settling of accounts: Jim Bigelow, a small, dry, dapper little individual, known as general jobber and factotum, and Abram Griswold, a stolid, wealthy, well-to-do farmer.
Red peonies were not the rarest of blossoms Melinda had taught him that when he suggested having them in his conservatory; but surely no one could object to these waxen, feathery pinks, whose odor was so delicious. Miss Bigelow liked them, else she had never sent them to him.
Marco Polo was not so great a traveler or so rare an adventurer as Bigelow, and, having left Florida under a thunder cloud of the scowl of an angry army for untimely criticisms, he has invaded the celestial empire in his quaint canoe, and he can beat the Chinese boatmen on their own rivers, and sleep like a sea bird on the swells of green water, floating like a feather, and safe in his slumbers as a solon goose with his head under his wing.
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