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Updated: May 21, 2025
C-a-t, cat. D-o-g, fox," with an affectation of juvenility which was grewsome. He resented an ill-advised attempt at familiarity by snapping at the finger which tried to scratch his poll, and barked out: "Take care! I'm a bad bird, I am. You betcher life!" "He's one of the cleverest parrots I have had for some time," said his owner, Mr. Holden.
He held up an impressive forefinger and laid it flat across the large, ruddy palm of the other hand. "First of all, he married a cat! C-a-t, cat. Is that clear, Gerald?" "Yes, sir." "Good! What sort of a dance she led him out there in Manila, I've heard. Never mind that, now.
And in no time at all it was no longer "c-a-t, cat," but "parallel," and "phthisis," and such orthographical atrocities, on which the eager scholar was feeding; for, Hannah's mind was as fresh as her round, rosy face, and as vigorous as her stout little body.
Des let a nigger git fur enough along ter spell out c-a-t, cat, an' r-a-t, rat, an' a few Fus' Reader varmints, an' he's ready ter conterdic' de whole dic'sh'nary. "Des gimme dat word a few times in my ear good, please, sir.
"Try," said Aunt Katie. "The easy words," said Aunt Louise. But Emmy Lou, remembering c-a-t, Pussy, shook her head. Aunt Cordelia looked troubled. "She certainly isn't catching up," said Aunt Cordelia. Then she read from the slip of paper: "Oh, woman, woman, thou wert made The peace of Adam to invade." The aunties laughed, but Emmy Lou put it away with the glazed paper in her Primer.
"Tabernicle, he 'an' Mercantile both been to school an' they learnt me an' Wilkes Booth Lincoln. I knows crooked S, an' broken back K, an' curly tail Q, an' roun' O, an' I can spell c-a-t cat, an' d-o-g dog an' A stands fer apple." That night he concluded his ever lengthy prayer at his kinswoman's knee with: "O Lord, please make for Aunt Minerva a little baby, make her two of 'em.
She herself had never been taught to read even Hebrew or Yiddish, much less a Gentile language, while here, lo and behold! her little girl possessed a Gentile book and was learning to read it. She was getting education, her child, just like the daughter of the landlord of the house in Russia in which Dora had grown up "C-a-t cat," Lucy would spell out. "R-a-t rat. M-a-t mat."
"I reckon I kin read that by myself," he added with an embarrassed laugh. "T-h-e c-a-t c-a-u-g-h-t t-h-e r-a-t. Ain't that right?" "Perfectly. We'll pass on to the next." And they did so, sitting on the halves of a divided flour barrel before the blazing chimney.
By the rapt air of exultation with which Hannah recited them, stepping back and forth by her wheel, you would have thought that "c-a-t, cat; r-a-t, rat," was the finest poetry ever written.
Coming back on an Italian steamer from Genoa she met Bill, who'd been in aviation, and there'd been some lovely moonlight nights and well, Bill had persuaded her that teaching young Chinks to learn c-a-t, cat, wouldn't be half as nice as being Mrs. William Hartley.
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