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Updated: May 29, 2025
Bobbie stumbled his unseeing way to her and shoved a small, cold hand into hers. "Jinnie's sad," he murmured. "Bobbie's stars're blinkin' out." Mrs. Grandoken and Jinnie had come to an understanding that Bobbie should not know of the cobbler's trouble, so the strong fingers closed over the little ones, but the girl did not speak.
For that, weel may the sun shine a celestial rosy reid, an' weel may the boatie row, an' weel may the stars luik doon, blinkin' an' luikin' again ilk ane duin' its bonny pairt to mak a man a richt hertit guid willed sodger!" "And, pray, what may be your rank in this wonderful army?" asked Lady Florimel, with the air and tone of one humouring a lunatic.
"When I have picked her out I'll let you know, Torchy," says he, blinkin' foxy. Later on though he tells me all about it confidential. He admits likin' well enough to run around with nice girls when it can be done without danger of being worked for orchestra seats or taxi fares.
And then: "Better go back to Hamerika and 'elp Wilson write 'is blinkin' notes." Well, I was mad enough to poke that sergeant in the eye. But I didn't. I retired gracefully and with dignity. At the door another sergeant hailed me, whispering behind his hand, "Hi sye, mytie. Come around in the mornin'. Hi'll get ye in." And so it happened.
"Stop her, stop her!" called Mr. Lavender to such of the astonished inhabitants as they had already left behind. "This is a nightmare, Joe!" "'It's a blinkin' day-dream," returned Joe, forcing the car to an expiring spurt. "If she gets to that 'ill before we ketch 'er, we're done; the old geyser can't 'alf crawl up 'ills." "We're gaining," shrieked Mr. Lavender; "I can see her tongue."
"They're doin' of it for the pictures." The idea gained instant popularity. "Jear that? It's a fillum!" "Wot o', Charlie!" "The kemerer's 'idden in the keb." "Wot'll they be up to next!" A red-nosed spectator with a tray of collar-studs harnessed to his stomach started another school of thought. He spoke with decision as one having authority. "Nothin' of the blinkin' kind!
It hardly seems as if the young people of to-day can really understand the poetry of English domestic life, reading it, as they must, by a reflected illumination from the past. What would "Cotter's Saturday Night" have been, if Burns had written it by the opaque heat of a stove instead of at his "Wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnilie?"
And to think I was a grown man and had no more sense or foresight than a little baby blinkin' its eyes in the sun." With years at Las Palomas, I learned to like the old ranchero. There was something of the strong, primitive man about him which compelled a youth of my years to listen to his counsel. His confidence in me was a compliment which I appreciate to this day.
"So, Guv," piped the Old Un cheerily, "we're out for the criminal's gore specially me. We're goin' to track the perisher to 'is 'orrible doom "'Where'er he be To th' gallers tree Oh, Guv, we mean t' bring him; An' laugh with j'y When nice an' 'igh The blinkin' bobbies swing 'im." "And you think you know who it was?" "I do, Guv, I do!" nodded the Old Un.
Last nicht, I found a wee cripple o' a laddie sittin' by himsel' in the gutter, munchin' a potato skin. I just took him, he starin' an' blinkin' like an owl at me, and carried him into my room. There I gave him a plate o' barley broth, an' finished him up wi' a hunk o' gingerbread. Ma certes! Ye should ha' seen the rascal laugh.
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