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Updated: June 1, 2025
Along the streets everywhere were dirty young boys of tender age, who should have been at school or play, rushing madly in every direction, trying to earn a few cents by the sale of newspapers, polishing shoes, and acting as chore boys.
Some years since circumstances caused me to spend the summer months in a farming district, a few miles from the village of E., and it was there I met with Terry Dolan. He had a short time previous come over from Ireland, and was engaged as a sort of chore boy by Mr. L., in whose family I resided during my stay in the neighborhood. This Terry was the oddest being with whom I ever chanced to meet.
The cattle who foraged through the straw stack in the field near by always made the mistake of thinking that they were included in the invitation, much to the disgust of Peter Rockett, the chore boy, who drove them back with appropriate remarks. Inside of the Stopping-House the long dining-room, called "the room," was a scene of great activity.
One evening, while Harry was performing his willing chore of carrying out for his grandmother the little dinner prepared by Mrs. Schum and partaken of by Lilly and Zoe at a small card table opened up beside the window of their room, Zoe announced, with a certain high-handedness with which Lilly was more and more hard pressed to cope: "I want my dresses longer.
All at once he kicked at something in the grass, bent over and peered at it, looked up at the calf, then picked up the object on the ground and stuffed it deep into his trousers pocket. "You said that chore feller's name was Haskell, hey?" he demanded, returning and standing over Mr. Gammon. "Simmy Haskell," said the other. "Well, now, what have you done to him?"
"That kind of news travels fast, sir." Britt showed worry. "Perhaps I undertook too much of a chore for a little bank like ours. But because we are little and because this town isn't able to support the bank the way I had hoped, I thought I'd turn a trick that would net us more of a handy surplus in a modest sort of a way."
In which case I would accompany you; I and my daughter, the mother of the chabi. Myself. And what should we do in the land of the Corahai? It is a poor and wild country, I believe. Gypsy Mother. The London Caloro asks me what we could do in the land of the Corahai! Aromali! Are there not horses to chore? Yes, I trow there are, and better ones than in this land, and asses and mules.
He did not force him, he did many a chore for him, always picked the best piece of the meal for him. Slowly, he hoped to win him over, by friendly patience. Rich and happy, he had called himself, when the boy had come to him.
Half an hour later still not stirring to disturb Murgatroyd he had her write down another time and sequence of figures, only slightly different from the first. Half an hour later still, a third set. But then he put Murgatroyd down, well satisfied. He took his own temperature. He nodded. "Murgatroyd and I have one more chore to do," he told her. "Would you go in the other cabin for a moment?"
"Brethern and sisters," said Abe, "there ain't no chore too big for the Lord, no chore too small. Yet He had time to turn this great big wilderness into this here land where we have our homes. Just think, folks, this Pigeon Creek had no one but Indians living here a few years back. And today we got cabins with smoke coming out of the chimneys. We got crops agrowing.
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