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Updated: June 27, 2025
McKenzie had not had time to dress. "I am so busy, Emily." "But you love the busy-ness, don't you? I can't imagine you without the hours crammed full." "Just now I wish that I could push it away as Richards pushed it " Jean looked up. "But Dr. Richards went to France, Daddy." "I envy him." "Oh, do you ?" Then her flowers came, and she forgot everything else.
Sovereigns by their nature are always lonely, and this loneliness was intensified in the case of the Queen by the premature death of Prince Albert and by that inability of sovereigns to make intimate friends, owing, not only to the seclusion which life in a palace entails, but to the busy-ness of their lives.
They went so far as to smile quasi-maternally at his boyish busy-ness. Now no sooner had Carthew slammed the door of the Eagle and got into the driving-seat than a young woman, a perfect stranger to Mr. Prohack, appeared, and through the open window asked in a piteous childlike voice if Mr. Prohack was indeed Mr.
Suppose I had not come until after dark. What would you have done, Ivra?" The little girl stopped in her busy-ness to stand on one foot and think a second. "Why, I'd have put the supper over the fire, lighted the candles, and run out to meet you." "Oh, but you wouldn't know which way to run. I might come from any direction."
Then her orders fell thick and fast, causing feet to run and hands to fly, causing curiosity to give instant way before the pressure of busy-ness, and a sense of cooperation to make genial the task of each. "Hush, everybody! Cora, you go make up the bed in the boarder's room. Turn the mattress, mind! An' stretch the sheets good an' smooth, like I learned you to do.
All the brightness and busy-ness in her was changed for selfish lamentations, and still the burden of her complaint was, "I shan't have any flowers in Redding. My garden, oh, my garden." "I don't know what's come to her," said poor Mrs. Forcythe. "She's not like the same child at all." And old Mrs. Clapp, who had been very fond of Mary, declared that she never knew a girl so altered.
For one thing, we are certain that not even the far-famed rosemary-fields of Narbonne, or the fragrant hillsides of the Corbieres, yield a sweeter harvest to the busy-ness of the bees than the Norwegian meadows and mountain-slopes yielded to our idleness in the summer of 1888.
Exertion under the pressure of want is, however, not incompatible with an inert disposition, and spontaneous activity, the love of busy-ness for its own sake, can be ascribed only to men and monkeys; monkeys, at least, are the only animals in whom repletion and old age cannot dampen that passion.
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